


To The Sound of Hooves (ABANDONED)

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Satyr Fics [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Coming of Age, Eventual Johnlock, Faun's age differently, Fawnlock, For Learning Purposes, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Self-Lubrication, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John joins his father in the cattle drive on his sixteenth birthday, shifting the herd from the summer pasture to the winter pasture on the other side of Brokeback Mountain. Along the way disaster strikes leaving John to move the herd alone, until he begins to question if the satyr are indeed the dumb animals that he has been led to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N While there is no dub-con or minor sex in this story, it could be taken that way and may be triggery for some. What I am trying to show is adult satyr sex education. It is different than ours and may seem strange since this is told from John’s POV and he cannot understand their words. They are NOT being molested or sexually assaulted. They are young adults, not children, and are fully capable of saying no (and do so).

 

John had been around satyr his entire life, watching them breed was how he first learned about the birds and the bees- or the bucks and the does. The first curse word he’d ever uttered that had gotten his mouth washed out by his mother was ‘tail lifter’, and he’d been beaten till he couldn’t sit when his father heard he’d used it once he came home. Years later when he learned what it meant- a rancher who had sex with his satyr herd- he’d been horrified. Who would do that to an animal? Who would do that _with_ an animal? Still, it had stuck with him even as he’d carefully _never_ let that word loose in front of his parents again.

Now he was finally old enough to go from helping around the ranch to moving the actual _herd_. Their farm was situated on Brokeback Mountain, a smallish mountain covered in trails and forest on one side and rocks on the other. Each fall and spring the herd was moved from once side of the mountain to the other to rotate the pastures; the reason for this being that the winter pasture had more shelter and the summer pasture had more natural feeding grounds and less storms since it was inland. Satyrs mostly took care of themselves if given what they needed, but they were headstrong and moving them could be a chore. There were two ways to get them to the other side, over the mountain or around it. Both had perils, the main one for going around it being time and falling rocks. The main issue for going over it was weather. While going over the mountain only took three weeks (assuming the herd cooperated) it was during fall when the nearby ocean could whip up hurricanes and send them crashing inland. The mountain was where they crashed against, the winter pasture being their crashing ground and the Watson homestead being on the sheltered side that rarely got more than rain. The goal was to get the herd there by the time hurricane season ended, and in the end the weather decided whether or not they went over or around the mountain.

“Okay, Johnny,” Will stated calmly, “You ready to go?”

John nodded as he climbed into his saddle and surveyed the sleepy herd. He had woken up at four in the morning to shake them out of their pallets and they weren’t looking forward to the long, cold trek over the mountain. The older ones were making that grumbling sound they often made when annoyed and the younger were just confused.

“Keep an eye on the young ones,” Will told him, “They’ll be the ones who try to take off and end up breaking a damn leg. The older ones might try to keep them in line, but they don’t always.”

“Got it, dad.”

Will gave a whistle and their three rotties joined them. If you herded sheep or cows a little dog might be good for you, but if you were herding satyr you used a Rottweiler. The dogs immediately jumped into action, howling and barking at the satyr as they rubbed the sleep out of their eyes. Sure enough, the younger ones were immediately alarmed and took off running. John drove his horse around the herd to the front and cut them off, bringing his riding crop down on their shoulders and heads until they fell in with the rest of the herd. Their mothers snatched them close and gave John a nasty glare, but he just rolled his eyes. They were so very good at imitating humans, but it was all mimicry.

While they rode on, once the herd had calmed a bit, Will started telling John more about the species he’d grown up around.

“You’re old enough now to know the truth of it, son. There’s more to these creatures than good milk, fur, and house slaves with opposable thumbs. They have a _culture_.”

“Culture?” John asked, “Like people?”

“Nah,” Will laughed, “More like animals do. Like apes in the jungle. They groom each other, grunt at each other, use small tools when taught-“

“Aw, dad, I know all that,” John grumbled, “I grew up around them!”

“-And _teach each other things_ ,” Will snapped irritably.

“Like what?” John wondered, eyes wide. He’d thought he’d learned all there was to know about satyr.

“Like how to pleasure each other.”

“W-what?” John stammered, sure he’d heard wrong.

“Yep. You watch them. See that mature grey one there? The new ones born two years ago are about to reach sexual maturity. As soon as they do he’s going to give each of them lessons in sex- first hand lessons- but he’s going to do it to for _pleasure_. The Receivers won’t have had their first heat yet and there’s no actual reason to mount a Giver. He’ll be teaching them how to pleasure another buck or doe, including _fellatio_.”

“What’s…”

“Oral sex.”

“Oh,” John went bright red.

“He’ll teach them on his mate, too. The only time he _ever_ lets anyone mount his mate. And one of the females will get to be played with as well- usually Irene. Then when Heat comes around they’ll all go back to their usual little mating groups. Now we usually stop them from mounting for kicks- you know that- just to avoid them breeding accidentally when we want them making milk or focussing on the wee one they already have. This time of year, during their migration, we let them do what nature dictates. The Receivers aren’t likely to get pregnant while their bodies are priming for a Heat and the Givers are calmer during a crossing when they’re sexed up. Works out for everyone.”

“So they just have a random orgy to get the younger ones taught about sex and then go back to mated pairs and groups?” John asked.

“Yep.”

“No kidds are born from it?”

“Nope. They’re not fertile yet, not even the Givers. They’ve just started showing an interest, and as soon as they do they’re taught the ropes.”

John snorted, “Great. Now I’m jealous of a bunch of animals.”

John mentally checked off who their mated satyrs were. They had several single Receivers who were kept away from the Givers and milking after their first kidd was born, a few mated pairs, one mated triad, one Head Giver Breeder and one Head Receiver Breeder. Lestrade and Irene, while not mated to each other, were their two head breeders. That caused some complications, as Mycroft- Lestrade’s mate- was their best milker. So they sold Lestrade’s spunk out to stud others or had him breed Irene artificially. Irene wasn’t mated so she would let any male stud her, which they’d also done to broaden the gene pool.

Will shook his head, “Sometimes I swear we give them too little credit. They seem to _talk_ sometimes. Not in English, mind you, but in their own fashion they communicate.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” John nodded, “They’ll point and stuff, too.”

“It’s eerie. Like a cat chasing dust motes.”

“Yeah.”

The first day was a struggle as the teenaged bucks and does attempted to bolt off the path left and right, despite the dogs and occasionally their parents trying to keep them in line. John ended up having to track one particularly troublesome young one for a full mile away from the path. When he finally found him he’d landed himself in a hole and was struggling to release his leg. John had to approach him slowly, making soft sounds and talking gently until he was able to grab the young buck’s leg.

“Easy, fella, easy.”

“Rrrgh!” He announce, growling angrily.

John glanced up and up and up, annoyed at how tall the buck was in comparison to his human counterpart. He had a mess of dark curls on his head- currently stuck through with leaves and twigs- a pair of large ears that protruded out further than his short nubby horns, and pale skin with the odd dark freckle here and there. His nose was a dark brown, as were the tips of his fingers and tail. His eyes flashed a myriad of colours and John quickly looked away from them; satyr eyes were eerie what with their odd hourglass shape and too-intelligent glare.

John worked the hoof loose and the faun tried to escape, but John simply grabbed his other leg and brought him down hard on his side.

“You break something my dad will break _me_!” John snapped, “Hold still, you little shit!”

The young buck growled menacingly, but he didn’t retaliate when John looped a rope around his horn and tugged him upright by his arm. He walked placidly back to the trail, steered by his horn, and it took them an hour to catch up to the herd. When he got there his father had set up camp and was loading the rifle.

“Thought the mountain cats had gotten you.”

“No, just a damn fool of a young buck,” John nudged the buck towards the rest.

Will whistled, “That’s our newest receiver! His mother and brother are the best milkers we have. I’d be damn pissed if we lost them.”

John preened. That was as close to a compliment as he’d ever get from his hard-arse father. Then he walked towards the campfire and pouted. There was no food.

“If you want to eat you better cook your own damn food,” Will grumbled as he headed for the tent, “I’m not your fucking mother.”

“Yes, dad,” John sighed, and sat down to prepare his food.

“And you’re on first watch!”

“Watch?” John jumped a bit.

“They’ll stick together for the most part, but a damn lion can still pull them out and kill em before you can get your trousers back on. Wake me in six hours.”

John sat down with his father’s rifle- his father had promised him a proper gun for years but not provided it- and cooked his meal while keeping an eye on the herd. They were all bunked down, snuggled into a pile of fur and faces, but most were still awake. Most alert were the teenaged bucks who were staring about in fear with their ears alternating between alert and flattened. They would creep near their mothers only to be brushed aside. The mothers wouldn’t reject them completely- satyr kept family ties their entire lives- but they were trying to make room for the babies they’d be having in spring once they went into Heat and most would still have a yearling on their teat. It was time for the older ones to grow up.

John noted the young faun he’d rescued earlier was on the fringe of the group and looking twitchy. He stood up and headed for him to shoo him back closer, but his elder brother gave him an irritable kick. John recalled what his father had said about the leader of their herd- Lestrade- mounting all the younger receivers. He wondered if Mycroft was jealous that his sibling would soon be bedded by his lifemate. He put a rope around the young buck- he would have to name him soon- and led him around to the other side. He tucked into a snuggle with a doe there, one he recalled as being a Receiver rather than the sneaky Giver does that had cocks tucked away in what looked like vaginas.

“I hope you’re not into Receivers,” John chuckled, “Dad hates it when the Receivers don’t put out for the Givers. You’ll make hardly any milk at that rate.”

Curious, John reached down and lifted the buck’s tail, but it was too dark to see the markings on his anus that would prove he was a Receiver despite his outward male genitalia. There was one other way to find out and John knelt to lean forward slowly. The buck didn’t bolt, though he did huff irritably. John found a nipple and leaned down to suckle on it. Nothing.

“I hope he’s right about you,” John shrugged, standing up and heading back for the fire, “We need more milkers after the illness took your mother and two other Receivers.”  
  
[CHAPTER 2](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/180956.html)


	2. Chapter 2

 

They were a week in to the trip when the clouds turned ominous. Will pulled out the radio and swore angrily. Hurricane James had taken a turn and was headed for them, and she’d be hitting their little mountain in three hours time. He led them to a treeless area and set up camp with the satyr all around their little tent.

“We’ll lose a few for sure,” Will snarled.

“Maybe we can bring a few of the receivers into the tent with us,” John suggested, “Just to keep them safe.”

“Fool boy!” Will shouted angrily as the sky opened up, “The tent isn’t safe! It might not even be dry!”

They huddled in the tent and the wind kicked up not long after. It wasn’t too long before the herd began to bleat and shout, crying out in fear and pain. John wasn’t shocked. Branches were breaking and flying in every direction and he was fairly certain he heard a bone snap. Then the unthinkable occurred and John and Will both stared in horror as one corner of their tent was lifted up, the spike flying out into the wind with a loud snap and a whistle. 

“Dad?” John asked in fear.

“Hang on!” Will shouted.

John did _not_ enjoy flying. There was absolutely _nothing_ fun about toppling arse over teakettle. Especially not when your first- and hopefully last- flight took place in an insulated dome tent that had somehow found it’s wings and ended when it found a tree as well. John blacked out and when he came to the wind was still wild and the lightening showed him a glimpse of the tent far above his head in the trees. John staggered upright despite his reeling head and shouted for his father. He would have tried climbing the tree, but a hand gripped his arm and he was dragged away. John found himself pressed to the ground with damp fur surrounding him. An arm wove it’s way around his waist and John pressed his face into a flank as another satyr backed into him to surround him completely. His arms were guided around that one and legs were wrapped around his. He suddenly realized what they were doing. They were _weaving_ themselves together to avoid being blown aside or lost should fear make them bolt. John hung on for dear life and sobbed his way through the worst night of his young life. 

At some point he must have blacked out and stayed that way, not shocking considering the lump on his head, because he woke up almost entirely alone. Around him were the three young ones born the previous year: Molls, Sherlock, and Mykael. They were apparently meant to be guarding him, or perhaps had merely been left as they were the most skittish. The mature bucks and does were gone, at least all the Giver ones were. The mothers were in a nearby huddle nursing their babies and when John dragged himself upright they all stared at him for a moment before going back to feeding their yearlings. Next year those would be the skittish ones… assuming there _was_ a next year.

John heaved himself upright. He swayed a moment before turning towards the tree and striding forward with purpose. Behind him a bleat told him his movement wasn’t appreciated but he ignored it and grabbed the lowest branch. His head spun faster than his body did when he tried to hoist himself up and he fell into someone’s arms. John looked up, hoping to see his father but instead found the same darkhaired buck from before. The one he’d dubbed Sherlock since he reminded him of the detective from the books he’d read in school. Sherlock now pointed at the tree and pushed John towards it before slinging himself up. 

It was slow going. Sherlock’s hooves were not equipped for climbing so he had to move much like a sloth would, but he eventually got to the tent. John watched in awe as he _unzipped_ it. He’d known they were fairly intelligent, but he had never heard of one working a zip before. The buck in question peered into the tent and then started back down. John felt instant relief. His father couldn’t be in there or the buck would have reacted, if only to poke him and bleat for food assuming the dumb animal couldn’t tell alive from dead. When Sherlock got close enough he simply dropped from the ground, drawing a concerned cry from John who feared broken legs, and then picked up a twig from the ground. Sherlock pointed up to the tent and then made a stabbing motion towards his stomach with the twig and let his tongue hang out and eyes glaze over. 

John backed into the tree trunk, staring up at the dark fabric above him. He’d assumed the darkness at the side of the tent- as it was hanging sideways with the floor pressed to the tree trunk, was their rumpled bedding. Now that he stared at it he saw it for what it was. Blood. A puddle of blood held inside of their waterproof tent. And something would have to keep it from falling with all that weight inside, and that something would be…

John sagged to the ground, shaking and feeling sick. The buck touched his face and made the same soothing sounds that John had been told to make to frightened fauns, the same ones John had made to Sherlock the day before. It didn’t help. When he didn’t calm, when the shaking turned into sobs and then into hysterical sobbing, Sherlock called to the ring of mothers. One of them headed for him and John vaguely recognized her as Irene, the mating matron of the group. She knelt down in front of John, making those sounds again, and pulled him into her arms despite his resistance. He found his face pressed against a breast, but her insistence that he nurse was ignored. Instead he sobbed against her, wrapping his arms tight and letting her rock him as his mother would have. 

 

_ What do I tell my mum? _

[CHAPTER 3](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/181093.html)


	3. vincentmeoblinn | To The Sound of Hooves Chapter 3

 

John was in a daze when the mature bucks and does returned, dragging with them the wounded and dead. John stared at the pile of dead below his father’s tree and the gestures that the fauns made up towards the tent. One of them rammed the tree and John involuntarily screamed. Irene shushed him and held him close again but he was trembling horribly. They apparently decided they had done all that needed doing and motioned towards the path. John wondered about the dogs but had no way to voice it so he simply took up with the herd as they moved along, eating as they went. John’s supplies were all gone, either drenched in blood in the tent or gone when their bear hoist was ripped away in the wind, so he tried to figure out which things were edible. For now he had no stomach for food, but he knew he’d need it later. 

John stuck close to Irene, but she eventually got annoyed and shoved him back towards the middle with the other teens. He ended up beside Sherlock who was being nuzzled by Molls despite his apparent disgust. John didn’t stop to question the fact that satyrs were now herding him; not when his entire world had just been tossed on its side. 

The herd didn’t seem to be going anywhere specific once they left the clearing they’d been staying in. Instead they broke trail and started wandering through the woods. They moved with silent grace, eating as they went and making not a sound in the still forest. When a bird called or a branch cracked they went still. It was almost like a dance and John found himself moving along with it despite the fact they’d spread out and he was no longer so close to his walking companions anymore. 

When night fell they found a nest of pine needles and curled up. More rain was coming and John was grateful for the warmth and solidarity of his companions when the wind began to howl again. They held him close and this time he did find himself nursing frantically as his belly ached and the comfort was sorely needed. Even when morning came he couldn’t figure out which of the several fauns packed against him had been his succour.

The next day the clouds looked less ominous and John found himself able to forage with the others, eating quietly as he moved along. Then something odd happened. A little scuffle between Mycroft and Sherlock turned more violent than ever and he headed over to break it up. He needn’t have bothered. Lestrade beat him to it and sent both Receivers sprawling. Sherlock was panting and stayed down, but his elder brother slunk off in a sulk. John hurried over, concerned that Lestrade had hurt him, only to see Sherlock staring in alarm at his groin. John froze. A little pink cock was peaking out of his dark fur sheath. Sherlock poked it with a finger and then shuddered, he looked up at Lestrade and whined piteously and the older buck gave him a fond look and knelt down on the ground. 

John watched with growing embarrassment as Lestrade leaned down and lapped at the small member. It began to grow and slid free. Sherlock looked alarmed, but Lestrade reached up and stroked his cheek gently until he relaxed back on the forest floor. John stared in awe as he began to writhe and moan softly. Every time a bit of fear crossed his eyes Lestrade gently stroked his face or held his hand until the young buck’s back arched and he came with a startled shout. Sherlock shivered in pleasure as Lestrade lapped at him until he went limp before gently cleaning up the mess on his belly with his tongue. Sherlock was limp and happy, his eyes slightly glazed and a lopsided smile on his face. John had never seen satyr _smile_ before and it momentarily distracted him from what was happening next. Lestrade was shifting over to straddle Sherlock’s hips, presenting him with his own erection. The lad gave it a disgusted look and went to squirm away while Lestrade tried to convince him to touch him. John was about to stop him, but when Lestrade realized Sherlock wasn’t going to reciprocate he rolled his eyes and let him go, watching the sulky young buck saunter off to rejoin his teenaged companions. Sherlock grunted and chattered away with them while pointing at Lestrade and his own genitals. They got curious and started exploring their own bodies, poking at bits and parts and snorting in apparent amusement when it got a reaction. 

John was so distracted by their human behaviour that he didn’t even notice lestrade until the buck had knelt in front of John and started poking at his clothed erection. Horrified and ashamed that their display had aroused him, and even more so by being touched by a satyr, he shouted and slapped the hand. Lestrade was on his feet in an instant, grabbing John by his hair and tossing him to the ground. There he put his hoof on the small of his back and John froze in terror. He could _easily_ snap John’s spine and leave him dead in the forest, possibly to never be found. Instead he snorted in disgust and left him lying there trembling. His erection was more than gone and he resumed his wandering while trying to think up a way to restore the balance. 

The satyrs were treating him like a satyr instead of like a human. They weren’t shying away from him like they usually did or asking him for a pet or to be milked. Instead they were using their milk to feed each other- regardless or age- and shoving him about when he didn’t do as they wanted. He tried picking up a stick and using his usual commands, shouting at them and giving them a sharp smack around the shoulders, but the result was Lestrade coming over, swiping his stick, and then smacking him with it. He was quickly cowed after that and resumed following the teenagers as they meandered about seeking food. Irene occasionally came over to stop him from eating something and pressed a different item into his hand. It took him a while to realize that she was stopping him from eating something poisonous and not just being a prat. Once he did he paid more attention to what he was doing, avoiding the plants she took from him even when they looked similar to ones she gave him. By the time the sun had set Irene decided he’d learned enough to not be nattered. They had been walking, eating, and drinking all day without actually covering much ground. Twice they’d stopped so Lestrade could fondle one of the lads reaching maturity. Mykael was next and John stared with his mouth hanging open as he hungrily returned the favour by suckling at Lestrade’s cock. He didn’t manage to bring the more experienced buck off, but he was nuzzled and cooed at for his efforts before Lestrade returned to his proper mate. That was when John got his first close up of a satyr coupling outside of Heat. Normally the ranchers kept them from going at it, as pregnancy could rarely occur and most of the Receivers were to be kept for milking, but John was absolutely _not_ going to challenge Lestrade again.

Instead, John stared in amazement as he pulled Mycroft against him and stroked his face, neck, and body gently while staring into his eyes. All the tension Mycroft had been carrying about as Lestrade taught the younger fauns about sex simply melted away. He lowered his lover to the forest floor and nuzzled his neck for a bit until his legs fell open. Then he slipped down to lap at his nipples, suckling a bit of milk without a clear intent to continue. He worked his way down until he reached the tiny pink prick that was slowly swelling with interest. John moved closer, eyes wide as saucers as Mycroft was lapped and suckled at until he was mewling for more. When Lestrade leaned back and tapped his hip the faun eagerly rolled over and presented his entrance. 

John was practically _beside_ them now, and the satyr _never_ let anyone this close without being restrained. He could see the black markings around his pucker- referred to as the Receivers Lip- that proved that Mycroft was fertile inside rather than outside. Lestrade took the term literally an pressed his lips to Mycroft’s pucker before beginning to lick him gently while stroking his tail. John hadn’t seen this act before either, he assumed because when they were in Heat they were already wet. Now Mycroft needed coaxing before he began to lubricate and Lestrade became enthused by the scent and began fucking him with his tongue. John’s hand was over his mouth to steady his breathing. The other teens had gathered around and were watching as well, one of them dropping down to sniff at Mycroft’s teats while another sniffed at Mycroft’s rump. Molls made a soft keening noise and slipped a hand between her thighs. John looked quickly away, eyes widening as Lestrade lined his large cock up with Mycroft’s entrance. Their lead breeder was impressive indeed, his member nearly white with grey markings across it like a palomino. John’s mouth watered as he pressed slowly into Mycroft’s body, stroking his tail as the faun whined beneath him. 

John jumped as arms wrapped around him from behind and he felt something hard press against the small of his back. John’s head spun around and he stared up in shock as Sherlock leaned down with a heated gaze. Their lips almost met, likely more by accident than due to Sherlock’s intentions as satyr didn’t kiss, then John broke free and bolted. Running was awkward due to his arousal, but he managed to make it over to the circle of mothers who clucked and made amused sounds as he pressed in between them to hide from the amorous Givers. Their nursing younglings- a hear old and already over three feet tall- gave him disdainful looks as if to say they had no idea why the teenagers were acting so ridiculous. 

“You’ll find out next year,” John huffed, shifting to hide his arousal. 

Irene laughed at him and shifted her youngling off her teet. She was their best Receiver, often birthing two to three younglings a summer and caring for them until their second year with apparent ease. She happily roped other Receivers into nursing or disciplining her own when she wanted to simply lounge. She was the queen of their little pack despite the fact their main Giver was mated to another. Of course, Mycroft was in his right a queen as well since he produced more milk than even his recently deceased mother had. 

To John’s shock, Irene made a welcoming gesture and laid back to spread her legs wide. John’s eyes widened. He recalled that his father had mentioned that Irene was usually the one to teach the teens about pleasuring a female-formed receiver, but he hadn’t expected her to _offer_ herself. John moved forward curiously. Irene’s furred muff had the same Receiver’s Kiss that the male Receivers had on their anus. He reached out to touch but his desire was slipping away. Irene noticed and sat up, returning to her youngling without a backward glance. She didn’t seem bothered by his unintentional rejection.    
  
[CHAPTER 4](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/181311.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | To The Sound of Hooves Chapter 4

 

Sherlock was refusing to let Lestrade or Irene bed him (Mycroft was off the table as a blood relative, satyr seemed to avoid that instinctively) though he was certainly not opposed to them getting him off. Mykael and Molls had gone at least one round each with Lestrade or Irene and then graduated to being allowed to bed Mycroft if they wished. Mykael had taken him up on it and they’d had very loud, very shocking sex that had woken up the entire herd one morning. Lestrade had looked _proud_ at the sounds of pleasure coming from Mycroft that day. 

Apparently John also fell in the category of unruly teens, and ended up sitting on the ground beside a sulking Sherlock while Lestrade knelt in front of them and grunted out what John was _certain_ were words of advice. He drew pictures in the dirt with a stick of groups of fauns, illustrating his points for John’s benefit. John watched as families were explained, receivers and giver, children, and leaders like Lestrade and Irene. He stared at it in amazement as it all came to the front for him. He was, apparently, concerned that Sherlock and John were unwilling to have sex out of fear or disgust. He was trying to explain the benefits to him- aside from pleasure- and that it was a beautiful experience that led to families.

These were not animals. They took pride in their sexual expression rather than simply going about it instinctively. Lestrade considered his position one of almost paternal love, and his mate stood over his shoulder glowing with pride. John smiled as he saw mating pairs and triads explained, the unity between the two and the compromise between the others. He was using _symbolism_ , and it was understandable to John despite their language gap! 

Then the instruction took a turn. It turned into information about humans; humans who took them from their mates and disrupted the natural order; humans who took their babies from them and then stole the milk their babies needed to be strong; lazy humans who sat on cloth lumps (couches) while satyr slaved for them; humans who beat them down and broke their spirit. 

John stared in horror at the slashed motions across the once beautiful symbol that had been written inside of the chest of the depicted satyr and felt sick. 

Sherlock yawned when Lestrade was done with his speech and walked away without responding. John watched him go and pointed to the image of the damaged satyr. He picked up the stick and very carefully restored the symbol inside his chest. Lestrade smiled and leaned forward to nuzzle him gently, stroking his cheek with soft fingers until John leaned into him more. This time John didn’t fight it when Lestrade’s hands strayed below his belt. He helped the man undo his flies and ignored the urge to cover himself and flee. Lestrade laid him down on the ground and studied his body, lifting one of his legs and spreading his cheeks to check him for a Receiver’s Kiss. John had never taken the time to look at his own arsehole and had a moment of panic that he _would_ have a mark of some sort down there and then Lestrade would take that huge member and shove it into him. Except he must not have because Lestrade relaxed and John knew that while he’d still _try_ to get John to let him mount him, it wouldn’t be an issue if John refused. 

Instead, John found himself panting as the man’s nimble fingers with their strange texture stroked along his cock. He stared down at himself in wonder as his body came to life and the Buck made soft grunting sounds of approval. John had never been touched by any hand but his own; he was usually busy with the ranch or school and the one time a man had leered at him his father had punched and then fired the bloke. It had instilled a sense of shame in John that had lingered- until now. Now he lay on the ground and moaned in bliss as Lestrade stroked him with a strong hand while gently caressing his neck, moving down to his chest and teasing his nipples until they pebbled, and then taking one of them into his mouth. John was surprised by that, the satyr _knew_ he wasn’t a Receiver so why…? Until the hot little tongues of pleasure began to zip from his aroused nipple down to his groin and John began to buck up into his grasp. The faun shook his head and slowed his motions, bringing John back from the brink of orgasm. This continued for a while until John was shocked and frustrated at how long he’d been held off.

“Iiiiiaaaa,” Lestrade sighed, and dropped his head down into John’s lap to suck him off.

John screamed in pleasure, his body arching off the forest floor as heat enveloped his member. His cock pulsed into the buck’s mouth as he spilled himself out, overwhelmed by the most intense orgasm of his young life. He lay trembling in shock as Lestrade gently pulled him into his arms, nuzzling his hair and wuffling against his neck. John clutched at him as sleep warmth moved through him, telling him to roll over and sleep immediately. Lestrade’s arousal prodded his side insistently and John pulled his mind out of the soft space he’d been curled in. He hesitantly reached down and Lestrade chuckled a bit. To John’s shock he shifted around and mimed John mounting _him_. 

 

_ Oh! _ _He’s recognizing me as a Giver, he’s showing me how to pleasure someone from_ that _end._

John stretched himself over Lestrade’s larger body as he knelt on all fours. It was awkward, but the faun did his best to lessen it by spreading his legs to reduce their difference in height. John reached around and took the hard member in hand, stroking it awkwardly. It was horrid. He couldn’t make it _work._ Lestrade’s member was too large to get his small hand around and too long for his arms to reach all of. Frustrated and fully aware that Lestrade was hot for him, he climbed down and instead slipped beneath his panting body. John could tell he wouldn’t have much luck sucking him off, either. He wasn’t _too_ big to get into his mouth, but John’s inexperience would end in embarrassment. He worked the cock with both hands while suckling on the head instead and before long Lestrade’s soft groans filled the air. He experimented with it, finding his own member wasn’t so different. Lestrade was panting heavily when John’s jaw began to ache, but he was stubborn and had every intention of succeeding where only Molls had so far managed. He worked Lestrade’s shaft with more enthusiasm while sliding his tongue beneath the foreskin. That did the trick and Lestrade let out a grunt that might have been meant as a warning before coming _hard_ across John’s face. He ended up with a nose full of spunk, sputtering indignantly while Lestrade laughed loudly. He pulled John into  sitting position while he wished he could sink into the ground in humiliation, but a raspy tongue soon licked him clean.

When he dared to open his eyes Lestrade was smiling at him fondly, his eyes full of apology for laughing even as he nudged John playfully. John forced a smile on his face and let the buck help him to his feet. There he slowly redressed while glancing around anxiously. Sherlock was watching him but the rest of the herd had apparently found nothing interesting about their coupling. Lestrade roughed up John’s hair and gave him a push to let him know that he should go off and enjoy himself. John wandered towards Sherlock who gave him a curious look. When he sat down beside him Sherlock grabbed his shirtfront, pulled him close, and sniffed at his face and hair. He must have found a bit of spunk that Lestrade had missed because he licked at his hair and neck for a bit. 

“It wasn’t bad,” John told him, “It was actually pretty fantastic.”

Sherlock snorted as if that was ridiculous and John rolled his eyes, “You’re such a pompous prick, you know that? I realize you’re likely to be the next generations best breeder and milker, but that doesn’t mean you can just toss tradition into the wind.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slumped down onto his back to stare up at the trees swaying slowly above them. John joined him, hedging close to snuggle into his side and breathe in his musky scent. He and Sherlock had slept curled the closest each night and John felt intensely connected to him. He nuzzled closer to him and Sherlock turned to press against him. John was surprised to find the faun nose to nose with him as they usually slept spooned or with John’s face against his chest. Instead they were nose to nose, and pressing his lips to Sherlock’s only seemed natural. The satyr allowed it, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion when John leaned back. It wasn’t his first kiss, but it was must have been Sherlock’s since satyr didn’t kiss. Recalling this, John leaned forward to nuzzle him. Sherlock gasped in surprise and pulled away, his eyes flashing with confusion.

“I’m sorry,” John called out, grasping at his wrist as they both sat up, “I just… I thought…”

Sherlock huffed and then leaned forward. He nuzzled John just beneath his ear and then bolted, darting behind a tree and crashing through the underbrush. Lestrade brayed out a warning, probably that he was being too loud, and then went back to nuzzling Mycroft. John stared at the affectionate couple as jealousy poisoned his heart. He _wanted_ that. He wanted that soft tender affection that he hadn’t even seen before. Certainly not with his abrasive father and shy mother. Not with his irritable older sister. He sure as hell hadn’t gotten that from the casual dates he’d gone on; they’d never gotten close enough as John was always too busy or too confused by his sexuality. Now he was alone and touch was the only language these creatures spoke that he knew as well. He _needed_ it.

John was still musing on this when the group got up as one, with their usual synchronization that seemed to have a signal he couldn’t sense, and began to move again. John followed them slowly with his eyes downcast, but he still felt Sherlock slip into step beside him. Then his eyes got stuck on a tree and it took him a moment to pull himself out of his grief and loneliness to recognize why. 

It was familiar. That tree was one he’d seen many times, he was sure of it. And that rock. And _this_ tree. And THE PATH!

John let out a shout of joy and bolted down the trail they’d just stumbled across. He knew this path. It was far from home, but it _led there_. He’d run it so many times that he swore he could run it in his sleep. His feet flew and a call behind him was ignored. In time he noticed the sound of hooves behind him, but he felt no fear of the fauns anymore so he ignored it. He was coming up on the bend in the path. Once he turned he’d see the chimney of their home.

John skidded to a halt. No chimney and the trees around him were toppled down, the brush so distorted that he was no longer certain he was in the right area at all. _Was_ this one of the paths near his home? There should be chickens meandering along this. The chimney should be _right there_ over the crest of those rocks. He should be able to smell food cooking or hear voices as the men who ran the homestead chopped wood and made repairs. John walked forward slowly now, his breathing so loud in his ears that he was certain he was just not hearing the usual sounds of the farm. 

Behind him Sherlock huffed and tossed his head anxiously. He’d been following at a distance and was now looking skittish, plucking at John’s shirt and making soft whining noises in the back of his throat. He didn’t want to be here and John wasn’t certain that he was wrong. They were reaching the top of the hill and the roof still wasn’t in sight. Then they were over it and the remains of his two story stone house and the large woodshed and chicken coop were spread out before him. A chicken was crushed beneath a brick nearby. The house had toppled onto their henhouse. The shed had been blown clear off the mountainside; it’s remnants not visible from where John stood. 

John took up running again, this time from his fear rather than towards his home. The results were the same. He ran down the hill and skidded to a halt in front of a cross that had been roughly made out of broken boards of wood and pushed into the soil on the houses threshold. No names were written across it but _someone_ must have survived to set it up. 

“Hello?!” John shouted, then started climbing into the rubble, “Mom?! Harry?! Stamford?!”

Sherlock was making a distressed sound behind him but the terrain was too unstable for the faun to get to him. John was slipping and sliding, hands and knees bleeding, as he shouted over and again. When he made it up to the top of the mess he rested his hand on the remnants of the old familiar chimney and stared around himself. Sherlock was making a shaky attempt at climbing the mess, his ears flat with fear as he negotiated the mass of sliding rubble. John’s terror for his family receded in the face of the immediate danger of Sherlock breaking a leg. He half fell, half slid down the mess of rubble and steadied his friend. 

“Iiiiaaaaa,” Sherlock insisted, pointing back towards the treeline, “Errghat. Errghat. John.”

“Wh-what?”

“Errghat, John.”

“You said my name.”

“Errghat ennth John.”

“Okay,” John nodded, “Okay, just let me do one thing and we’ll leave.”

John helped Sherlock climb down the slope again and knelt by the cross. He picked up another stray beam and a nail and carved a message into it, laying it in front of the cross. He left without looking back. There was no point. His childhood was gone.  
  


[CHAPTER 5](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/182696.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | To The Sound of Hooves Chapter 5

 

John and Sherlock walked along hand in hand, Sherlock clearly berating him for his risky behaviour. Then he sniffed the air and turned back with an irritated look. He snatched up John’s other hand and studied a deep gash in it. I splinter protruded from his wound and was dripping blood. Sherlock sighed, applied pressure partway down his hand, and carefully slid the splinter free. John hissed in pain, but the blood that spurted wasn’t much and a bit of pressure stopped the flow. Sherlock lifted his hand to his mouth and licked at it firmly, his eyes lifting to meet Johns. 

Those eyes with their vertical hourglass slits and the colours that defied definition held John frozen in place. His breath was stolen from his chest. Sherlock’s tongue moved over the rest of his hand and between his fingers. John’s breath shivered through him and he moved closer to Sherlock, his free hand reaching up to touch his hip. Sherlock’s ears pricked up and he lifted his chin.

“John?” Sherlock asked, “John evana ta?”

“Just…” John moved closer, “Just hold still.”

John leaned forward, eyes drifting closed as he breathed in Sherlock’s scent. His cheek brushed the satyr’s, rough stubble stroking along Sherlock’s soft skin, his face was still baby soft with youth but it didn’t take puberty for a Satyr to have hair from th waist down. The satyr shivered, his breath stirring John’s hair, and then John had his nose against the lower part of that downy ear and was nuzzling his soft skin. Sherlock huffed out a word and then pulled John against himself tightly, his own wriggling nose nuzzling against John’s jaw almost frantically. His teeth made an appearance and John groaned as he nibbled along his jaw and up to his ear, licking at his earlobe with obvious longing. 

John’s arms wrapped tightly around the satyr’s waist, clutching him close as his hands moved over his body, ignoring pain from his injuries as pleasure curled in his spine. He gripped a handful of satyr rump and squeezed and the faun whimpered, his knees wobbling and causing them both to topple to the ground. John caught himself just in time to avoid crushing the faun who stared up at him in surprise as if he couldn’t figure out how they’d ended up on the forest floor. John wasn’t about to pass up relief from his long days of misery. He buried his face against the buck’s neck and continued to nip and lick at him while undoing his trousers and shoving them down. Sherlock moaned and wriggled beneath him, arching his back and looking distressed. John pushed himself upright and helped the faun turn onto his stomach where he instinctively pressed his bottom into the air and lifted his tail. It was white beneath and the Receivers Kiss winked at him saucily as the tail flickered back and forth in Satyr invitation. 

John groaned and stroked the tail upward, leaning forward to press his lips to those he longed for. Sherlock pushed back and keened and John found himself lapping at him eagerly. His desire overrode his common sense and John straightened up, pressing the head of his cock against Sherlock’s pucker and pressing _hard_. 

Sherlock let out a cry of pain and struggled away from John, twisting about and tossing a leg over his head to stare down at his hole accusingly. Sherlock gave John a betrayed look, hurried to his feet, and fled from him. 

“Wait!” John called, tugging up his trousers, “Wait, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you! Sherlock, please wait!”

 

_ Idiot! Idiot! _ John accused himself in frustration, _Now I_ am _the monster Lestrade was warning against!_

 

John chased after Sherlock, panting in frustration as he struggled to find the path the buck had taken. It took him an abysmal amount of time to find the herd and when he did it was to find them having some sort of _celebration_. All around him the satyr were shouting and dancing around a fire pit, their voices rising and falling in a pulsing chant. John dodged around them, pulling his arm out of the grip of two who tried to pull him into a dance, and continued to look for Sherlock. He found him behind a bush with Mycroft and Lestrade. Mycroft had Sherlock across his thighs, stroking his back while licking at his injured anus as Lestrade petted his face and murmured comforting words to him. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. When John stumbled up Mycroft lifted his head and growled angrily at John, his eyes flashing with rage even as he stilled his sibling’s struggles gently. The unspoken words were clear. _How dare you hurt my little brother?_

“I didn’t mean to,” John stammered, “I just… I didn’t mean to _hurt_ him!”

Lestrade let out an aggressive snort and stood up, hands motioning for them both to stop. He reached a hand down to Sherlock and drew him to his feet, pulling him firmly into his arms and petting his pretty curls. Then he reached for John, who hesitated at the accusing glare from Sherlock. Lestrade was carefully scolding Sherlock who buried his face in Lestrade’s neck but did finally reach a hand out for John. John took it and was drawn into an embrace by both. 

Lestrade was speaking gently, but John was unable to understand him. He just pressed close, deeply in need of comfort and willing to take it from anyone. 

His mind was nowhere sexual so it surprised him when Sherlock lifted his head and pressed closer to Lestrade. They nuzzled tenderly for a moment and then became more invested as they pressed close to each other. John tried to pull back but Lestrade tugged him close again, leaving him staring down in surprise as they began to rub their growing erections against each other. Sherlock was whimpering in need and John wasn’t surprised to hear a low groan from Lestrade as he stroked the young buck’s bum. 

Then he pulled away and motioned for John to come closer as Sherlock stepped back with wide eyes. 

“Wh-what’s going on?” John asked.

Lestrade motioned again and John stepped forward, not entirely sure he wanted to be held in Lestrade’s arms so soon after accidentally harming Sherlock. Yet pulled against him he was, and in the gentlest grip. Lestrade nuzzled him tenderly before guiding him to the forest floor. He lay amongst the soft bed of needles they’d gathered for sleeping, staring anxiously up at the muscular figure of the grey satyr. He gave John a curious look before tugging at his trousers and grunting in annoyance. John undid them and tugged them down and Lestrade pulled them the rest of the way off. Then he gripped his shirt and tugged it over his head. Sherlock laughed at his static riddled hair, reaching out to touch it and jumping when he got shocked for his troubles. Lestrade chuckled and pushed John down onto his back. 

John groaned as Lestrade leaned down and began to lap at his flaccid member, quickly bringing him to full hardness as he wriggled in desire. Sherlock knelt beside him, eyes wide as he watched Lestrade’s motions before being prompted to lean in and try it himself. John whimpered as Lestrade pinned his hips down to stop him bucking up into Sherlock’s inexperienced mouth. When Sherlock leaned back with a curious look on his face and licked his plump lips John was nearly undone. Lestrade gripped the base of his cock and held him off, ignoring John’s pleas and not letting him push him away. He gave John an annoyed, slightly accusatory look. Then he said something to Mycroft that had him rolling onto his belly and pushing his bum up into the air. The urgency in John’s belly increased but Lestrade was fully in control and John had _not_ been given permission to touch Lestrade’s mate. While John watched, Lestrade shifted over to his mate and began to lap at his pucker, spearing his tongue to push inside until it vanished from view. John’s eyes widened as he watched the muscles along his jaw flex as he wriggled his tongue inside of Mycroft’s arse. The Receiver moaned and shivered in pleasure. When Lestrade leaned back a string of slick, clear fluids followed his tongue, more rushing out of Mycroft’s bum to drench his furred bollocks. 

“Oh gods,” John panted, “Sherlock wasn’t that wet.”

Lestrade ignored him. Instead he turned back to John after whispering a few words of encouragement to Mycroft. Lestrade motioned for John to roll over and get into Mycroft’s position while Sherlock shifted sideways and knelt to watch the proceedings. John knew what was to happen then. He was going to be topped by Lestrade as punishment for hurting Sherlock! 

Trembling, John rolled onto his stomach and lifted his hips in the air, his face buried in his arms as tears started up. Lestrade made soft hushing noises and nuzzled his bum, reaching around to grasp his quickly deflating cock. John ignored the gentle tugs while Lestrade began to lap at his entrance. John gasped and shivered, but the fear was overriding the pleasure he otherwise felt. Lestrade kept working at him, tongue pressing inside his clenched body as he growled in frustration at John’s resistance. He gave Sherlock some odd instruction and the satyr slipped beneath his belly to take John’s cock in his mouth. John gasped and his hips jerked involuntarily. Lestrade made an approving sound and began to suck, lick, and prod his arse in earnest. John was lost. On one hand he was terrified, but on the other pleasure was curling in his abdomen as Sherlock learned which motions aroused John most and Lestrade continued to lick his entrance open. 

 When Lestrade’s fingers pressed against him next it was with a strange substance easing the way. John was so surprised that he turned his head around rather than pull away and stared at the sight of Lestrade reaching over to finger Mycroft’s bum before returning to John’s with wet digits. 

“Oh gods,” John whimpered, and then hissed as two fingers pressed inside of him and began to work him wide open, “Oh! Oh, _that’s_ what went wrong!”

John had never seen satyr have sex outside of Heat until this migration, and he’d not always seen their actions on the few times it had happened in his presence. He knew that Lestrade spent a _lot_ of time touching them, but he’d thought it was part of teaching them to pleasure each other. Now he understood. He’d been using his mouth and fingers to prepare them for sex since the Givers certainly had no natural lubrication the way Receivers did, and apparently even the _Receivers_ didn’t function the same outside of Heat or Sherlock and Mycroft wouldn’t have needed to be stretched.

John relaxed once this ticked into place and Lestrade made an approving noise, rubbing his back with one hand while he pushed a third finger into his bum. John let out a deep breath and pleasure started to pulse through him from both his fellated cock and the gentle licking around Lestrade’s fingers inside his body. Then Lestrade curled his fingers and John let out a sharp cry as his body convulsed with what _almost_ felt like an orgasm about to happen, but then dwindled away. John found himself pushing back in an attempt to get that feeling back and Lestrade gave it to him happily, stroking that spot inside of him until John moaned as the pleasure curled at the base of his spine and shot into his bollocks. He would have spilled himself then had the man not removed his fingers and prompted Sherlock to let off his cock.

“Oh gods, no, please!” John panted, hand flying to his abandoned shaft. Sherlock pushed it away and gave him an annoyed look. 

Sherlock nodded his head to the side and John turned his head in time to see Lestrade thrust into Mycroft’s wet body. He pumped his hips a couple of times and then withdrew his wet cock, spitting on his hand to add to the moisture. John swallowed hard and pressed his forehead into Sherlock’s lap as the younger buck switched positions. The satyr’s cock drooled on his ear, but he ignored it as he panted anxiously. Lestrade lined up behind John and pressed slowly inside, easing his body open with short thrusts until he was fully seated inside of him. John breathed through the intrusion, ignoring the burn as he reminded himself he _had_ to go through this. It was what would seal him as a part of the herd, and he knew now that being a part of the herd was what he deeply wanted. They were the closest to family that he had left.

Lestrade stilled to give John time to adjust, stroking his hip and petting along the base of his spine as if he had a tail. Once John’s body was relaxed enough Lestrade pulled out slowly and slid back in. The first few thrusts were awful. The pleasure was gone and the burn continued despite the underlying pleasure as his p-spot was stimulated. Then all at once it simply… altered. One moment he hated it and the next he was pushing back as pleasure jolted through him. 

Lestrade let out an eager growl and took John in hand as he sped up his thrusts. John groaned and pressed back, his cock thickening in the capable satyr’s hands. John groaned and pressed back harder, his head moving from side to side in Sherlock’s thickly furred legs as he writhed in the building tension. Lestrade reached down, searched his hair a moment, and then pulled him up by a fistful of it when he couldn’t find horns to grip instead. John shouted in pain, but it was quickly forgotten as Lestrade plowed into him from his now kneeled-up position. His cock was quickly taken in hand by Sherlock, who stared up at him with wide eyes full of wonder and want. John couldn’t control the cries coming from his mouth as Lestrade gripped him by hair and hip and Sherlock wrung every drop of desire from his body. When his vision cleared again it was to find Sherlock staring in surprise down at the white splatters across his torso while Lestrade adjusted his position to relieve John’s prostate as the young man began to whine and pull away from the overstimulation. 

John ended up with his face in Sherlock’s lap again, this time with his mouth hungrily wrapped around his throbbing member. Sherlock moaned softly and then with more enthusiasm as Lestrade began to take the human harder, thrusting his mouth onto Sherlock’s leaking cock. John gagged but quickly wrapped both hands around Sherlock’s long member, forearms resting on his thighs, and set about suckling hungrily while avoiding his teeth as he had with Lestrade. Sherlock moaned deeper, the sound penetrating John’s body just as Lestrade resumed his torture of John’s prostate. 

The human couldn’t decide if he liked or hated the pained pleasure curling through him, but he was certainly helpless in the face of it. He felt his mind slipping out of sync with his body as he resigned himself to be used for their mutual pleasure. As he floated above the scene a shiver of something new swelled inside of him and pleasure exploded even as hot fluids spilled into each orafice. John choked on Sherlock’s seed before swallowing hungrily. Behind him Lestrade’s cock pulsed inside of his body once more before sliding free. He was still rock hard, as was Sherlock, but the focus had changed. John collapsed onto the ground and Lestrade gently spread his cheeks to lap at his leaking hole. While he did he poked John’s hip.

“Yeah, I get it. I do this. M’kay,” John panted, his body shaking with the aftermath of his forced orgasm. 

 

Sherlock whined. He was still hard. Of course. Satyr climaxed more than once. _Can I even satisfy him?_

John crawled forward to take care of Sherlock while Lestrade hungrily mounted Mycroft. The other two grunted and groaned away while John weakly worked Sherlock’s shaft, stroking his bollocks to encourage him along. Sherlock whimpered and keened, clearly needing more than John was providing with his tired jaw. John groaned. He was as limp as a weeping willow after a rainstorm! He wasn’t sure he should use his fingers either, not after Sherlock had been roughed up earlier. Yet Sherlock continued to whine and wriggle in need, so he turned and offered him the only thing he could at that time- his well-used bottom.

Sherlock hesitated a moment, then he grabbed John’s bum and lined himself up. A press inside and John realized _this_ might not work either! John was loose from Lestrade and Sherlock was significantly smaller as a Receiver. However, his muscles soon remembered their former life and clenched around Sherlock’s frantically seeking cock. They settled into a rhythm with Sherlock chasing his release with eager growls. 

For John’s part this was nothing like his coupling with Lestrade or even with both Sherlock and Lestrade. This was lazy and tired and _warm_. Sherlock wasn’t even trying to reach his prostate, so his body was simply being used. That felt indescribably precious to him. He was bringing Sherlock satisfaction and all he had to do in order to give him that release was be available to him to touch and thrust into. John laid his head down on his forearms and closed his eyes as the rocking motion lulled him into a comfortable daze. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep until Sherlock sped up and even then he drifted off again until Sherlock let out a series of deep grunts and then groan John’s name.

John’s hips were lowered to the floor of the forest, Sherlock rolling him about until he wasn’t lying in his own spunk, and a hot, eager tongue began to lick him clean. John shivered in the growing chill of the night and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him to snuggle close. John yawned and soon found himself pressed against other Satyr bodies as everyone moved in close to sleep. He recognized Mycroft’s scent and found a teat to suckle on with the older Receivers permission. 

As hot, sweet milk flooded his mouth his body relaxed into the warmth and heavy breaths of those around him. It wasn’t his downy bed on the farm. There weren’t pancakes to wake up to. There might never be the more familiar sound of human laughter again, but John was _content_. He couldn’t honestly say he’d ever been content when he wasn’t around Satyr and now he knew why. For all their well-known mannerisms he had no connection to humans outside of his now missing family. He would still look for them, there was no doubt about that, but for now all that mattered was the herd. Tomorrow he’d try to get them to the other side of the mountain and the safety of the winter fields. From there he could locate the local police in the nearby village and possibly find his family, or at least get proper news of them.


	6. vincentmeoblinn | To The Sound of Hooves Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are MANY unrelated satyr in the herd, but they aren’t mentioned because this is from John’s POV and he’s only forming close bonds with a few of them. They will be covered in the continuation- as well as a few secrets revealed- as that will be from Sherlock’s POV.

  


WARNING: Mentions miscarriage caused by abuse :’(

A/N Breeding Note: There are MANY unrelated satyr in the herd, but they aren’t mentioned because this is from John’s POV and he’s only forming close bonds with a few of them. They will be covered in the continuation- as well as a few secrets revealed- as that will be from Sherlock’s POV.

John woke up the next morning damp from dew and shivering, struggled into clothes that were mostly dry because they’d been slept on by someone, and tried to find a way to communicate with Lestrade that the pasture would be the safest place for the herd. Lestrade had spent over an hour tugging him around and pointing at specific satyrs- including Sherlock- completely confusing him with what seemed to be a reason for his refusal. Frustrated, they’d both separated to sulk. 

In that time John had stared at the sketches Lestrade had made while trying to explain things to him. It seemed to be a sort of family tree. He was connecting lines and crossing them out, showing John how they’d been bred and how he _wanted_ to be with Mycroft. John just couldn’t figure out why that was relevant to them going to the winter pasture… unless.

“Oh!” John exclaimed, startling several nearby fauns, “Oh, you think I’m going to separate you!”

John hurried over to Lestrade with a stick and drew out the winter pasture, noting the two separate fields- separated by a large wall- that kept the Receivers and the Givers from going near each other during their mating time. There were stalls in the breeding/birthing barn where pairs that his father wanted to breed would be taken, but other than that they’d have no contact with half the herd for the entire winter lest a second heat be triggered. Now it was well known that Mycroft and Lestrade were a mated pair, but Satyr were polygamous in nature, often mating outside of their chosen pair when a fellow doe or buck was mateless and going through their season. Specifically they didn’t usually pair off permanently until they were past ten years old, so the younger ones would bed each other and their older, unrelated chums until they settled down and focused more (though still not usually exclusively) on their chosen mate. That being said, Mycroft and Lestrade had only been able to mate with each other during a heat twice. The first time their young had been sold, and the second time had been during the breakout that had conceived the current teenage group out of their usual five-year mating gap. Mycroft had miscarried when his father had become enraged at finding several of his does unexpectedly pregnant. He’d hit Mycroft and the poor buck had lost his kidd. Of _course_ Lestrade would want to be with his mate instead of being separated or paired off with Irene or whoever was to be the new breeder in place of the deceased Ariel! 

John vehemently stabbed at the mating/birthing barn and then scribbled out the wall. Lestrade snorted and shook his head, taking the stick and drawing… a human. John felt his stomach clench. As he’d suspected Lestrade drew the humans around the wall, arms reaching out towards it. John sighed. Lestrade didn’t believe him. He feared the other humans would control them.

John pointed to the sky and tried again to explain that the weather was going to turn _violent_ on the mountain, but Lestrade shook his head again. Instead he pointed to John and Sherlock, than himself and Mycroft, on and on he pointed out mated pairs. John sighed. Then he thought of something. His father’s mystery! He’d never been able to figure out who Sherlock, Molly, Mykael, Molls, and Frederick’s sires were. He’d been positive Mycroft was carrying Lestrade’s sprog, but beyond that… 

John took up the stick and pointed out two of Irene’s children and their sire- Oglah- before pointing to two of Lestrade’s children with Irene. Then he pointed to Sherlock, Mycroft’s (half?) brother, and shrugged his shoulders in confusion. Lestrade began to laugh. He took John by his hand and pulled him over to the chart he’d made showing their genetics. There he pointed out the criss-crossed mess of figures on the bottom. John groaned in frustration. The stick figures might make sense to Lestrade, especially with the markings beneath that seemed to be names, but to John it was all Greek. He tried to get Lestrade to elaborate, but he suddenly took off to chase Mykael away from harassing Goudy.  __

After a few hours he tried to approach Lestrade again, figuring he’d try a different tactic, but the buck snorted aggressively and lowered his horns in clear threat. John backed off, hurt and confused, and turned to Sherlock for answers. The receiver was backed against a tree with Moriarty- a buck about four years older than Sherlock from the last controlled breeding- cornering him! John rushed over in alarm as Moriarty sniffed at Sherlock while pinning him to the tree, hand groping his crotch while Sherlock struggled to push him away with a disgusted look. Without thinking John grabbed Moriarty by the horns and tossed him down to the ground, using leverage to get the job done as he normally did with unruly bucks. 

John placed himself in front of Sherlock to protect the satyr from the strange assault and felt him wrap his arms around John’s waist and nuzzle his neck affectionately. Desire curled in John’s belly, but he didn’t respond to it. He was too busy staring down Moriarty. Satyr considered eye contact threatening, so he was being _very_ clear in his communication this time. He wasn’t sure what was going on. Sherlock had been pointedly _avoiding_ Moriarty ever since the older buck had started harassing him shortly before the hurricane. Now Moriarty glared at them both for a few minutes and then skulked off, his posture still threatening. He went to heckle Molly, but when John made a move to help her Sherlock clutched him tightly. He was about to pull away when Lestrade showed up and separated them. He then headed over and separated _John_ from _Sherlock_. John was now _very_ confused, but watched for several minutes longer to try and figure it out. As he observed them Lestrade hurried over to Irene and chased off a Doe who was rutting up against her thigh. Then he rushed for Mycroft, lowered his horns, and knocked Helvetica off of Mycroft with enough force to knock the wind out of the horny young Giver. She lay on the ground panting and holding a hand over her ribs. Worried that she’d been seriously hurt, John hurried over to where she lay. 

Lestrade grabbed onto Mycroft’s arm and dragged him away from the other Givers and began to scent him. That was when it clicked for John and he slapped his forehead as he realized how idiotic he’d been being. Lestrade was _separating_ the Givers from the Receivers just the way the ranchers normally did, but he was doing it for a purpose. Their heat was coming. Keeping them separated would put it off a bit longer while the Givers were rounded up to collect food and the Receivers made containers to hold water. Lestrade was trying to organize them while keeping them from mounting each other, and he was having more trouble than usual because less of the inexperienced ones were related to him this year.

John obediently lined up with the other Givers and was soon shipped out to collect food. Since he had a knife on him he decided to make some weapons and catch some meat as they hadn’t had any in days. Normally the satyrs’ meat was provided for them, so John didn’t think they knew how to hunt. He soon had a group around him studying his actions, and when he showed them how to throw a spear or stab at the water they were extremely excited. Before he knew it they’d taken off with various sharpened sticks and returned with… mostly nothing. That was to be expected, but a few had managed to bring something home. They returned triumphant with fruits, veggies, squash, fish, and rabbits. They roasted everything and stuffed themselves full of food and water, the Givers and Receivers eying each other up from across an invisible line. 

Once they were done the Receivers started to creep closer, some of them blatantly crawling forward with desire in their eyes. John swallowed hard. Sherlock was glancing at him shyly despite their activities the night before. Night was quickly approaching and he wasn’t sure he could handle not being able to see all that flesh laid out before him. He definitely couldn’t handle it if someone else got to Sherlock before he did. He was _sure_ the faun wanted him, but it was more complicated than he’d expected when he noticed two bucks suddenly stand, slam their heads together, grasp each other’s hands, and begin struggling with each other. The doe they were fighting for watched curiously from the sidelines, her tail flickering as her heat fast approached. 

_ I can’t do that. I can toss them easily, but fight off their horns? It won’t be easy. _

John stood slowly, fully aware that doing so was signalling his willingness to fight for a Receiver. Eyes shot to him. He’d have to walk towards his choice and if he was tackled from behind it would be all over. John stood and headed for Sherlock, refusing to be distracted by those silken ears as they perked up. John couldn’t say specifically what alerted him to the movement of the other buck, it felt as instinctive as blinking when eyes were struck by sunlight. One moment he was headed straight for where Sherlock sat on the forest floor and the next he was spinning around with his leg out. His heel connected with Moriarty’s temple and the buck went down hard. Between that and his bruised ribs from earlier John was surprised to see him struggling to rise. 

Moriarty’s brother rushed forward, pulling him up by his arm, but rather than assist him in battling John he pulled him back. John watched in confusion as the two began to struggle angrily, snarling and growling. Moran had Moriarty by the horns and was dragging him towards Buttercup. Buttercup’s ears perked up and John gaped as she fell back and spread her legs wide. On the ground beneath her bum her little tail wriggled and twitched with excitement. Buttercup had birthed Mykael and Molly two years ago, likely fathered by Moran or Moriarty. Hell, possibly both with the way Satyr sometimes bred in nature. John suspected that Lestrade had led the break-out, with other bucks following at the scent of heat.

John pulled himself out of the confusing scene and hurried to Sherlock’s side, relieved when the buck’s arms flew around his neck without further challenge. Sherlock fell back and John lay over him, nuzzling his neck in an approximation of scenting him. That was when he caught the scent. That enticing, arousing scent that made men abandon their wives to bed satyr. The scent that the men wore masks to avoid becoming intoxicated by when they were breeding the satyr. Desire ran up his spine and back down with lightening speed and he found himself pressing against Sherlock, rubbing his hips in need. 

Sherlock pressed back, rolling them over and tugging Jawn’s trousers off. He leaned down to lap at his cock, bringing him to full hardness and slathering him with moisture in the process. John groaned, tugging at Sherlock’s horns as he pulled him up to straddle his lap. John reached down to finger Sherlock’s bum the way Lestrade had taught him, finding him a bit damp but not dripping wet the way he would be in full heat. That was fine with John, he didn’t care to wait until Sherlock was writhing in pain from the full onset of heat. 

Lestrade, on the other hand, _did_ care. He came stomping over angrily and forcibly separated John and Sherlock, growling angrily when John tried to fight him for the right to mate with Sherlock. He shoved John down and dragged Sherlock forcibly towards the area they’d fucked in the night before. John followed, stubborn and outraged. The sounds that came from behind the bush didn’t sound like mating. They sounded like _fighting._ John’s throat clenched in horror and he chased after them, but was stopped in his tracks when he saw they weren’t touching each other.

Instead, Sherlock and Lestrade were standing a few inches apart, raging at each other. Grunts, growls, hisses, clicks, baas, and groans filled the long line of dialogue between them, with the occasional _John_ thrown in. 

 

_ They’re talking! They’re actually speaking! Their own language! Not just imitating humans, not just making sounds without knowing what they mean. They’re not just animals! They’re intelligent! _

Lestrade shouted something at Sherlock that sounded _very_ final and Sherlock snorted in frustration, pouting a bit and scuffing a hoof against the ground like a petulant child. He was adorable and John wanted to hold him, protect him, and take away the fear in his eyes. Except it was apparently out of his hands. He’d lost to Lestrade and now Sherlock was turning his back to Lestrade and lifting his tail. Lestrade knelt down and sniffed at Sherlock’s little hole while John watched anxiously. 

_ I lost. Lestrade’s taking Sherlock as a mate. But wait… that makes no sense. He has Mycroft as a mate, and they’re at least half brothers if not full. That wouldn’t make sense. Satyr might not breed logically, but they don’t mate with their close relatives. Mycroft wouldn’t stand for sharing Lestrade with his sibling. A cousin  _ maybe _, but not his sibling. So why… THE TRAINING!_ __

John swallowed hard as Lestrade pressed on Sherlock’s shoulders, shoving him down onto his knees. Sherlock snorted in clear disgust, but he bent forward and presented his pucker anyway. Lestrade leaned forward and began the slow process of prepping a buck for mounting outside of heat, for Sherlock’s clearly hadn’t begun yet. John came closer slowly, testing his theory. As he’d suspected, Lestrade gave him an aggressive snort, but didn’t stop him from approaching Sherlock. 

_ Sherlock was willing to let me touch him before. He’s made it clear he wants me. I can at least ease his fear now. _ _ _

John knelt down and stroked Sherlock’s silken ears, looking down into eyes that allowed him to see their vulnerability. Sherlock shivered as Lestrade worked him open, but the desire was clearly growing as Lestrade’s expertise made him pant with want. John held his face cupped in both hands and leaned down to capture his lips, slowly teaching Sherlock how to kiss. Their wet tongues slid together as Lestrade sank into his boy, propelling Sherlock forward a bit and mashing their mouths together hungrily. John moaned and Sherlock made a low, purring sound deep in the back of his throat. John groaned, palming his erection. He knew he had to hold off. He’d been kidding himself earlier. Once Sherlock’s heat set in he’d be panting for sex for six hours or more. If John stood even a chance of having him as a mate he had to be able to keep up with him, and that meant not spending himself _before_ Sherlock truly needed him.

Sherlock who was currently panting as John broke their kiss to watch in aroused wonder as the faun’s body began to rock forward and back with Lestrade’s long thrusts. Sherlock’s eyes had glazed over with lust, but it wasn’t long before he started to push back and make soft sounds of need. That need amped up more and more as Sherlock’s cock hardened and a sheen of sweat broke out on his brow.

“Johhhhn,” Sherlock groaned, one hand reaching up to clutch at his shirt. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered, “You’re so beautiful.”

“John! Ah ata avbagah!” Sherlock cried out. 

John shifted downward, placing one hand on Sherlock’s flank and moving the other down between his thighs to take his throbbing member in hand. Lestrade gave him an approving glance, and John revelled in knowing this creature well enough to understand that much. Then he was lost in watching Lestrade’s bi-coloured cock vanish inside of Sherlock’s body over and again. The satyrs were moving faster, Sherlock’s cries becoming more and more heated as he pushed back in search of his release. Lestrade growled low in his throat and began to pound him in earnest, throwing a sharp glance at John who quickly took up a rougher pace, tightening his grip around Sherlock’s long, thin cock. His hand stopped stroking the beautiful black flank and moved down to roll his bollocks until they drew up. He petted the furred orbs, reaching back behind them to stroke Sherlock’s taint. It was wet with his own fluids, drawing an anguished groan from John as he slipped a curious finger further to feel the point where Sherlock and Lestrade became one. 

John glanced up at Lestrade, finding his face furrowed in concentration as he closed his eyes and focused on bringing Sherlock off. The younger buck let out a sharp cry as John’s fingers stroked around as much of his pucker as he could reach while his other hand worked the shaft. John nearly fell on his face trying to lower himself down enough to take the tip of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, but it was worth it when Sherlock let out a startled and almost frightened bleat and came hard in his mouth. John heard Lestrade groan and felt him still, his member pulsing against John’s fingers as he filled Sherlock’s greedy hole. John reached down to stroke the older satyr’s bollocks, causing him to grunt and spill himself a second time. John grinned around Sherlock’s cock, but his reward was another mouthful of spunk. This time it was so much that John choked on it, the fluid spilling out of his mouth and trickling down his cheeks towards his ears. John sat up, trying not to laugh lest he upset his mate and their leader. He wiped at his face and smiled down at where Sherlock knelt on the forest floor, panting and trembling a bit. His ears were down, a sign of fear or sadness in Satyr. John worriedly stroked them.

“It was just a lesson,” John soothed, “Lestrade had to. You did so well. Don’t be sad, sweetheart.”

Sherlock looked up at John, eyes wide and wet, and let out a soft keening sound that was so plaintive John’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. Lestrade pulled away from Sherlock sharply, making angry sounds as he stood and glanced around their little camp. Anxious for new reasons, John stood and did the same. All around the camp the Receivers were shifting about. One at a time they began to let out soft keening sounds like the one Sherlock had. John shivered. He recognized it now. He’d heard it from the pastures during fall and winter. 

_ Heat _ . 


	7. Chapter 7

WARNING: Violence and Gore for this chapter.

The entire camp echoed with the sounds of frantic cries, low moans, hungry groans, and the wet slap of flesh. John scrambled around to Sherlock’s back end, moaned at the sight of his gaping pucker leaking out Lestrade’s spunk, and buried himself to the hilt. The young buck was now making more fluids than before, his body was dripping wet with the older satyr’s release and his own natural lubricants, and John was lost to the wet, hot glide. He’d never felt such intense pleasure in his life. Sherlock’s scent drove him to a level of hardness that was nearly painful; leaving him with only the need to get friction on his cock in whatever way was possible. Sherlock was almost _too_ wet, and John’s voice joined the desperate cries around him as he fucked him faster and harder, _needing_ to get enough rub against his hot cock to relieve the intense stretch of his flesh over his swollen member.

Sherlock was crying out as well, pushing back and all but sobbing in need. Had John been more aware of his surroundings he might have worried that he wasn’t big or experienced enough to satisfy the satyr, but Sherlock was taking matters into his own hands by tilting his hips until he found _the spot_. When John heard his tone change to one of intense pleasure his body found renewed strength. He found himself pounding into the satyr, his voice letting out primal cries as if he were racing towards a battle rather than a very different sort of climax. Sherlock’s body clenched and the buck let out an impassioned cry, his body pulsing out onto the ground beneath him.

The heady scent of sex niggled at John’s synapses and he recalled that he had to do more than hump Sherlock. His hand flew down, Sherlock adjusting their angle once again, and he took the eager young creature in hand. Sherlock’s cries changed once again, this time sounding more content and eager. He pushed back on John more firmly and his tail flickered in longing. John moaned and kissed the beautiful buck’s neck and shoulders, nipping at the suede flesh he found beneath his mouth. All that pale flesh with brown spots and little freckles was quickly becoming the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Like a well-worn pillow John found comfort in the buck, and more than that he found _love_. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was never, evergoing to let Sherlock go. No matter what became of the ranch he’d at least see to that!

Sherlock’s body began to flutter and then clenched tightly around him and John moaned as he spilled himself into Sherlock while the buck gasped and grunted through another release. It felt so damn _good_ , more than any wank or even the thorough fucking Lestrade had given him not long ago. He was sure Sherlock’s arse had a mouth inside it sucking and swallowing him down, which was close to true but John was unaware of the suckling vagina inside of the buck that made him a receiver. He stilled to indulge in the pleasure before taking a few steadying breaths and beginning to thrust into him once more. He moved at a slower pace now, having developed a stitch in his side. Sherlock began to keen in longing, his tone frantic, but John had to ignore him. He needed to pace himself. Sherlock’s heat would make him able to maintain an erection for a longer period of time, and he _might_ be able to ejaculate a few more times, but overall he didn’t have a satyr’s recovery time.

John was just finding his new rhythm when a snarl reached his ears that sounded out of sort for their particular activities. It was Moriarty again. He was headed over to John and Sherlock, his chocolate flesh making him seem larger than he was while his black eyes pierced through John with their feral glare. His teeth were bared in a snarl more reminiscent of a wild cat than a goat, and John was instantly aware that Lestrade would _not_ be rescuing him this time. The grey buck was off fucking Mycroft’s brains out, from the sound of it quite successfully, and wouldn’t lift a finger to make sure John secured breeding rights.

As much as John did _not_ want to leave Sherlock’s body- his own was convinced it now lived there- he absolutely had to pull out and fight Moriarty off. He slid free with an audible pop while Sherlock’s greedy hole grasped at air.

“No! John!” Sherlock cried out, “Ava! Ava eghaglah!”

“Just hang on, Sherlock,” John panted, rising to his feet to face the angry Satyr.

Moriarty was staggering, his mind gone from the heat scent around him. His cock was hard and leaking on the forest floor, a steady stream of pre-come oozing from him to create a line that broke and stuck all over the tight curls of hair on his legs. He looked murderous and John had no doubt that this creature could kill him despite his drunken movements, a notion that Moriarty then proved when he dove at John with a wild scream. John ducked back, but that was what the wild thing had been going for. He ceased his attack, pivoted on one hard hoof, dropped down, and very nearly buried himself in Sherlock before John could tackle him to the ground. Sherlock was so far gone in heat that all he did was kneel there, arse in the air and face planted on the ground as he sobbed brokenly in unfulfilled misery.

 _Soon, my love_.

John and Moriarty struggled on the ground; sharp hooves scoured at John’s legs and a horn nearly took out his eye. Then his hand fell on something hard and John raised it up in the air and brought it down on Moriarty’s face. The buck blinked at him in shocked confusion as blood started to trickle from his nose. John brought the rock down again, and again, and again. Beating him long past the point where Moriarty became still. He was wild and angry; screaming and swearing, spit dripping from his lips and blood splashing on his face as he beat the creature’s face in. Only when one of Sherlock’s bleats reached his ears over his own shouts did John relent. He abandoned Moriarty’s still form, wiping his hand off on the ground, and hurried over to his satyr mate.

Sherlock was on his knees, casting about pleadingly for someone to relieve his heat. Far too many of the bucks around him were related so Sherlock’s cries fell on deaf ears despite the amount of unmated males around them. When John came into his focus he snarled angrily at him and tackled him to the ground. Had it not been for his scent John’s adrenaline fuelled body might have attacked him, but the powerful aroma of heat drove him to moan and lay still for the buck. Sherlock lowered himself down on John’s diamond hard shaft- it hadn’t dwindled for an instant during the fight- and began to ride him hungrily. John let himself fall still beneath the satyr, sighing in bliss as that perfect wet heat wrapped around his cock once more. Sherlock’s muscles massaged him and the tighter corridor of his inner vagina suckled on John’s cockhead with each inward thrust. When the needy buck stilled above him to stroke his own cock John merely whimpered with pleasure as he painted the human’s body. Sherlock growled possessively and rubbed his fluids into John’s flesh while the young man crooned in pleasure. John’s nipples were hard peaks on his tan chest and Sherlock’s calluses brushed them until he felt the sensation jolt down to his cock. 

“Sherlock!” John cried out, moaning helplessly as the satyr resumed his bouncing and the young man was completely unable to stop his orgasm from cascading over him. Sherlock recognized it and instinctively stilled, hand moving over his cock as he sat balls deep on John to absorb his seed into his womb.

“John,” Sherlock sighed in apparent contentment, and then began to ride him again with renewed vigour.

John worried about how much longer he could last. He wasn’t as hard now as he had been before. To excite himself to greater lengths he reached down and grasped the buck’s bum, reaching down to find his entrance. He pulled the fluids he found there to his face and stroked them across his upper lip and the mass of stubble growing there. The renewed heatscent kept John going, his member firming up again so that Sherlock could ride him with wild abandon.

The buck worked himself with one hand before giving up on his cock in favour of riding John more intensely. He leaned forward, both hands on John’s shoulders, and let out all manner of intense cries as he writhed in John’s lap. John managed to work up the strength to grip Sherlock’s cock, staring in confusion at his filthy hands around that perfect prick.

 _I’ll get him messy_.

And then Sherlock was coming with a strangled scream and John all but sobbed through an orgasm wrenched from his own body. He collapsed backwards, sparks flying behind his eyelids as his body mourned his overstressed state. There was no staying hard after that. His dick actually _hurt_! In fact he just barely stopped Sherlock from sitting on it awkwardly and bending it when he realized John had stopped coming and moved to continue their coupling. Sherlock snarled at him in frustration, pulled a hand back, and slapped him soundly across the face to express his distaste in yet _another_ interruption to his first mating. John couldn’t be angry. He could _smell_ how needy the creature still was, but they were only a couple of hours into mating and John was _spent_.

“My face,” John panted, “Sit on my face.”

He had to repeat it a few times before Sherlock understood, but then he clamoured up and rubbed his aching cock across John’s lips. John suckled at him and lifted his clean hand to make a passage for the Satyr to thrust into. His jaw was soon aching as Sherlock fucked his face frantically, his cries more and more desperate as his body remained unfilled. Sherlock came down John’s throat twice before John couldn’t take it anymore. He pushed the buck off and the creature toppled sideways, bleating in misery and wriggling about to present his arse again. John’s heart went out to him, but he had nothing left he could do except…

_Except what Lestrade taught me!_

John hurried around and set about fingering the eager buck with three fingers, then four, then working his entire _hand_ into the hungry orifice in front of him. He curled his hand into a fist as he’d read in one of his father’s breeding magazine and pumped it firmly. Sherlock wailed in obvious pleasure, writhing in gratification and crying out John’s name. When he came it was with a sigh of relief before collapsing forward. John had to follow him or risk injuring the limp satyr. He slid his hand out carefully after uncurling his fist. He glanced at it uncomfortably, but it only looked like come and lubricant coated it.

All around him satyr Givers were collapsing in exhaustion, panting a moment or two, and then dragging themselves towards the water reserves. John watched them force down water before urging their receivers to swallow some down as well.

“This must be half time,” John muttered, dragging his burning limbs over to a wooden bowl full of water.

John swallowed it down, collected more from the stream, and headed back to Sherlock. He had moved away from Moriarty’s body and was waiting for John with heavy eyes. He accepted the water gratefully and then nuzzled against John’s hip. The young man settled down beside him and they curled up together for a cuddle. John was instantly asleep, not waking until a jerking motion brought him to consciousness. His body had reawakened and Sherlock was wriggling back against him while they spooned.  With a groan of pain from his burning muscles John pushed forward and reengaged their coupling. He was tired, sore, thirsty, and _tired_. Yet he knew that this was imperative. Without him filling him Sherlock would be in pain and he hadn’t taken the time to stretch himself in order to let Sherlock inside of him.

John managed to climax once more, his muscles clenching painfully, before his body gave up on him. Wheezing, he collapsed onto his side on the ground. He was sure Sherlock would take up that keening cry again, that he’d have failed him, that Sherlock would wish Moriarty _had_ taken him, but then the buck sighed and collapsed as well. Sherlock used the last of his strength to snuggle up to John, tugging his head beneath the buck’s chin, and let out a happy moan before drifting off to sleep. John wasn’t about to argue with his luck. He closed his eyes and let sweet slumber roll over him.

XXX

John woke up to a burning pain that brought out a cry of pain from his hoarse throat. He pried his heavy eyelids open and lifted his heavy head. Sherlock and Irene were kneeling on either side of his legs and chattering amongst each other. John stared down at the topic of their discussion when they motioned down at his legs. They were swollen and covered in dried blood from his battle with Moriarty. The gashes across his shins and left knee had dirt and forest debris stuck in them. John was instantly worried despite his fog of exhaustion. If he got an infection out here he’d likely die, or at the least lose both legs!

Irene seemed to be giving Sherlock instructions, to which he was pouting prettily. John could just imagine their conversation.

_“You need to boil water and make a poultice…”_

_“I’m tired and my muscles and arsehole hurt!”_

_“Shut up or I’ll spank you! Do as I say!”_

John chuckled and they gave him a worried look. Irene pressed her lips to his forehead. At first John thought it was a kiss, but then he realized she was checking him for fever. John was made comfortable and Mycroft joined them to oversee Sherlock and Irene cleaning his wounds, grunting instructions while Irene gave him amused and tolerant looks. Sherlock was less amused and tolerant. In fact, he was downright disgusted and eventually shouted at Mycroft until he huffed in offense and left. John chuckled at their antics again. Molls wandered over and nuzzled Sherlock’s cheek. John felt a pang of jealousy at the show of affection, especially since Sherlock allowed it when he never allowed others to touch him besides John and- under duress- Lestrade. John jealously squirmed up despite Irene’s scolding and pulled Sherlock against him. The buck snickered at him, the sound more of a click, and nuzzled his hair comfortingly. Molls looked confused, sniffing at them both, but eventually wandered off to find something else to do.

They spent the rest of the day resting, John’s legs covered in chewed up herbs wrapped tightly with long strips of grass and held in place with bark. His legs were feeling better after only a few hours, but the whole group was tired from mating and staying put. John worried about the season but couldn’t exactly herd them down the mountain in his state. He shivered miserably that night, his teeth chattering despite the fact he’d redressed. Sherlock tried to keep him warm, but he was ill equipt to survive in the wild. Mycroft and Lestrade snuggled up to him as well, Mycroft’s corpulent form far warmer than Sherlock’s thin frame. He felt a bit guilty for snuggling up to him, but Sherlock seemed to encourage it while making worried sounds in the back of his throat. Lestrade was against Mycroft’s back pressing him close to John, hand reaching out to chuff John’s cheek and arms to generate heat even while he slept.

The next morning John found himself tugged up. He was feeling worse for wear, his body sore in every space and his calves swollen once more. Oglah being the largest male was kneeling on the ground while Lestrade and Lucinda hefted John onto his back. He rested his head on a wiry strong shoulder his legs clasped beneath each knee. When John failed to grip around Oglah’s shoulders his wrists were gently tied together with his own boot laces, padding pressed in place in the form of moss and grass to keep his circulation from cutting off.

Now that John was secured, blearily staring around at the group, he found the satyr were shifting anxiously. Other wounded were being secured to strong backs in similar fashion and the receivers had tossed young kidds over their shoulders, one hand on a rump to keep them in place. They looked fit to bolt and John felt apprehension rise in himself as well. Lestrade paced the area, making sure everything was ready and speaking to a few in rough grunts. Then he stepped forward, facing the winter pastures. For a moment there was intense silence, givers and receivers alike all but holding their breath. Lestrade let out a loud cry, reminiscent of a bugle call, and bolted. John let out a startled cry as all the satyr echoed his cry. Then they were moving, their legs pounding the earth until a cacophony of hoof falls filled the air. A thousand drums sounded their passage, a veritable stampede through treacherous grounds that could easily break the a satyr leg if a hole was found rather than sure footing. John’s heart pounded in his chest even as he buried his face against soft fur and breathed in the moss-and-sweat scent of Oglah’s old body. He felt sure they wouldn’t survive the trek down the mountain without utilizing the relative safety of the path, but then a red marker caught his eye. They were _on_ the path! The satyr had located it and were running through four and five deep, leaping rocks and fallen trees with ease. John was jolted as Oglah knelt over one large trunk for a split second, pausing on one hand and one sharp hoof before his muscles tensed and he cleared it a good six feet in the air. He came down hard, John biting his tongue in the process as his jaw snapped shut, and continued at the painful speed.

Hours passed. John became used to the swinging motion of satyr hips and the jostle of their hooves hitting the hard ground and eventually slept. When he woke his hands were numb but he managed to force them to clasp each other. Strength was returning to his body and with it his ability to ease the grip on his wrists by the laces they’d tied around them. Oglah shifted him firmly, giving him more give to his arms, and John grunted a thank you in his own language. The satyr grunted something back in his, leaving John to interpret it as a welcome if he wanted.

The trek down the mountain from the position they’d been in should have taken three days, but with the Satyr running as they had it had consumed less than six hours of the day. They stopped in the winter pasture, panting and shifting with the sudden chill of stillness on their sweat-soaked bodies in the cold afternoon air. John was carefully lowered to the ground, the laces having to be cut lose by a sharp pair of teeth. Sherlock took charge of him, rubbing sensation back into his pained hands and making soft sounds in his ear as he nuzzled him tenderly. John leaned against him gratefully. Then a pair of boots came into sight and John lifted his eyes up to stare at an alien face. John blinked a few times, his memory of human faces slowly returning. He knew this man, if vaguely. He was one of his father’s hands from the village, one who kept the satyr fed and warm during the winter when his father and their staff couldn’t make the trek down the mountain.

“John, isn’t it?”

“Bob,” John nodded, trying and failing to pull himself to his feet, “Did anyone else make it down the mountain?”

“If they did they met chaos. The whole town is destroyed. The dam broke. We’ve been using your barns as shelter. Didn’t expect to see a soul here. You need medical care?”

“I think I’m okay,” John replied, “They took care of me.”

“Who did?” Bob asked in confusion.

“The satyr. They put pultices on my wounds and carried me down the mountain.”

“They did what? Son, you must be feverish. Satyr can’t _think_.”

John didn’t reply. He was now fully aware of his surroundings and that Sherlock was considered an _animal_ by these people. He straightened a bit, holding himself with more assurance.

“Sorry, Bob. I’ve had a hell of a week. My father didn’t make it down. The house is destroyed. I saw evidence _someone_ made it, but I’ve no idea who. They didn’t come down here?”

“Not that I saw, but everyone’s in those two barns. Why don’t we head over and see? I might have missed them. Don’t get your hopes up, though. We lost dozens of people, John. _Dozens_.”

John nodded and gestured for Sherlock to help him up. He would walk under his own power, but he needed a crutch and Sherlock was it. He leaned heavily on his Satyr clicking at Mycroft to help as well. Mycroft gave him a narrow-eyed look and John gave him an apologetic one, gesturing him closer. Mycroft followed the more human gesture rather than the herder instruction and stepped close.

“Listen,” John whispered, “I’m going to have to play along with the humans. I need to keep the ranch and they won’t let me do that if they think I’ve lost my head to you guys. Help me. Convince the others to be docile and follow my instruction. Okay?”

Mycroft hesitated a moment and then headed over to Lestrade. A grunted conversation followed and John left them to it as he headed inside with Sherlock beneath his arm for support. The receiver barn was full of refugees. People huddled with blankets and a few suitcases of possessions. Children wept. Parent’s looked hopeless. John wandered through them without seeing anyone from the ranch proper. He headed to the giver barn and found the same situation, but a welcome surprise.

“Harriet!” John called out.

Harry lifted her eyes from where she huddled in misery on a pallet of hay, “John? John!”

Harry stood up and limped towards him, one arm in a sling and bruises marring her pretty face.

“John, you’re alive!”

“You made it!” John cried out, holding an arm out.

Harry threw her arms around his waist and sobbed a bit, but quickly got herself under control. Ranch women weren’t the soft sort you met in town. She didn’t even get a tear out before she stilled herself and straightened up.

“You hurt?”

“A bit, but not fatal. You?”

“Few broken bones. Bruised ribs. Cracked skull. I barely made it down the mountain,” She stated with a note of pride.

John grinned, letting his pride in her show, but his face soon fell, “Mom?”

Pain flashed through Harry’s eyes, “No.”

John closed his eyes a moment, letting that awful truth settle. He couldn’t weep in front of the humans the way he could the satyr. He swallowed it down. Beside him Sherlock made a mournful sound and John felt he was crying for him. He squeezed his waist thankfully.

“What’s the status?” John asked, his voice gruff with unshed tears but still strong.

“Marshal survived. He got a radio working and contacted the next town. They’re no better off but they said they’d sent for help from the government. We’re just waiting our turn.”

“How much food and clean water do we have?” John asked, and they were off discussing the basics.

It was an hour later when John’s review of their supplies was interrupted by a frightened bleat from the fields. John turned tail and shot out despite the pain in his legs, Sherlock beating him outside to the scene. John shouted and shoved angrily at a man who was trying to tug Irene’s kidd from her arms.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” John shouted at him.

“We’re short on food and it’s just a little one, you can always breed more. They’re like friggin rabbits.”

“We drink their _milk_ and wear their _fur_ , we do _not_ eat their flesh!” John raged, “They’re beautiful creatures, not simple cattle!”

“The hell are you…?” The man grunted angrily.

“Stay away from my herd or I’ll shoot you!” John shouted, switching tactics, “This is _my_ land, _my_ livestock, and _my_ right to protect! Now piss off! And don’t kill the chickens!”

“They aren’t giving eggs!” The man shouted back angrily. A few others shouted agreements, their argument having drawn a crowd.

“They’ll give if you lot stop harassing them!” John shouted, “Would you like to shit out a rock with a bunch of hungry Neanderthals standing over you? Piss off and leave my animals be!”

The herd had gathered behind John, pressing close and staring daggers at the humans glaring at them hungrily. John turned to Sherlock and whispered carefully, stroking his ears as if he were trying to soothe a savage beast.

“I need you to convince the Receivers to give them some milk,” John whispered, “I’m sorry, but it’s the only way. The food is scarce and they’re desperate.”

Sherlock gave him a subtle nod and let out a few short bleats and grunts, while nodding down to his own chest. John knew what he meant. Still petting his ears he eased Sherlock down to all fours and called for someone to bring him a bucket. Once there he began to massage his soft tissue, starting with the higher and working towards the lower. He had no idea if Sherlock would produce yet. Some Receivers could before giving birth, but most required the birth of one child before they could start making more than a few drops at a time. John reached the third set of teats, finished his massage, and moved back up to the first set. After a few soft strokes he felt a trickle of liquid so he grasped above the nipple and squeezed tightly. Sherlock yelped but held steady and John had a long stream going.

The group let out a collective sigh, hope rekindling in the desperate people around them. John continued to milk Sherlock while whispering encouragement- to the view of those around; in reality he was whispering thanks and apologizing repeatedly. When he had drained all six breasts he pressed a kiss to the top of his head, figuring it looked patronizing enough to get away with, and shooed him off. Next he pulled aside Mycroft and soon had several full buckets as the Receiver was one of their best milkers.

John passed around the buckets and everyone ladled milk out, cheers going around as the thick substance soothed their stomachs. John pulled his herd aside, guiding them towards the fields.

“I’m sorry,” John repeated to Mycroft and Sherlock, “I’m _so_ sorry. I had to or they would have killed one of you.”

Sherlock was sulking so Mycroft came forward and put a hand on John’s chest, petting it soothingly.

“John,” Mycroft replied, then narrowed his eyes and carefully struggled through the next words, “We know.”

“Thank you,” John replied, wrapping arms around the plush waist and hugging him gently before stepping back, “We’ll have to get you guys shelter too. The humans have taken over both barns and apparently the town further down is flooded.”

“We outside,” Mycroft replied slowly.

John was impressed. He’d no idea they spoke so much English.

“You can survive outside? During the snow?”

Nods all around and Sherlock snorted in apparent disgust. He was still looking angry and frustrated. John worriedly stepped closer.

“Sherlock? Erm… sweetheart?” John tried.

“What sweet… heart?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing.

“It’s something humans call a person they care about. A mate.”

“Mate. John,” Sherlock nodded, “Sweetheart.”

“Are you mad at me?” John asked, moving closer and reaching for his silky ears.

Sherlock ducked his tall head and leaned into the caress, pulling John close and holding him tightly. John’s breath caught at the possessive tug against his body.

“Mine milk small,” Sherlock sighed, glaring at Mycroft.

“Oh, geez, well…” John smiled softly, “After you have a kidd you’ll make more milk. Mycroft’s got that over on you for now. I’m sure you’ll make _lots_ of milk for our…”

John’s voice drifted off. _Could_ they have kidds? Sherlock might at the very least conceive from Lestrade since they’d buggered shortly before he went on heat. While John’s thoughts had turned to worry, Sherlock’s had turned to kidds and he was giving John a delighted look and petting his hair. Lestrade made an amused noise and cuffed Sherlock’s shoulder. Then he started grunting to Mycroft and pointing towards the other side of the field.

“Barn,” Mycroft pointed.

“Barn?” John wondered, “There’s no barn over there. Just a little manger sick satyr to be separated from the herd.”

“Mander?” Mycroft tried.

“Manger,” John corrected.

Mycroft tried it again and managed it, nodding sagely, “John go manger. We outside.”

“So I’ll stay in the manger- where I can survive- and you lot will be outside? That seems a bit harsh.”

“We outside,” Mycroft repeated, looking proud of the fact they could survive it. John nodded, realizing he couldn’t treat them like dumb beasts anymore- at least not when his own kind weren’t looking. They crossed the field quickly and John spent an hour cleaning out the manger and making it survivable.

“I’ll need a few supplies to stay here,” John told Sherlock, “Will you come back with me to get them? And will you let me attach a wagon to you to pull them back?”

Sherlock nodded, though his eyes warned John not to push too hard, and they started back. John loaded up a cart with enough hay to supplement the herd’s diet and some for his own bedding. He grabbed a lantern, some candles, and a few bowls. The people were giving him worried looks and he kept a dour look on his face, doing his best impression of his father he could manage. The reverend stepped forward.

“John, I want you to know that we’re all very grateful for the use of your barn, and that there was no harm meant by us just showing up. We had no idea of your family’s fate. Or yours. No disrespect was meant and I’m sure once we’re all back on our feet we’ll be sure to help you get back on yours.”

“I’m sure you will,” John replied, “Where’d my sister get to?”

The reverend pointed and John hurried over to where Harriet slept.

“Listen,” John whispered, “I want to…”

“What’s gotten into you?” Harriet whispered, “You’re acting off.”

“I have to keep the ranch safe.”

“You sound like dad,” Harriet replied, her tone implying it was an insult, “Do I come last again?”

“ _No_ ,” John replied sharply, “I want you to stay here and maintain presence with everyone. Keep them aware that this isn’t their property they’re trampling. It’s ours.”

“Ours, is it?” Harry asked sharply.

“Yes, ours,” John replied, “Yours and mine.”

“Our house is gone.”

“We can build another,” John replied, “It’s the people we can’t replace. I won’t lose you too. Please, Harriet. I’ll explain it all when they’re gone. I have to be strong for us. You do too.”

Harriet paused and studied him quietly before nodding sharply.

“I’ll be back each morning to bring milk,” John whispered, “You take care of the chickens?”

“What’s left of them, sure,” Harriet nodded, “They’ll lay for me now you’ve got these arrogant pricks to back off.”

“That’s my girl,” John grinned, “Slaughter the pig if you have to, but encourage people to conserve. How did the chickens even get down here?”

“They vanished during the storm and just showed up here,” Harry replied, “Reverend said animals know storms better than we do since they weathered them with Noah.”

“Oh and where were we? Swimming?” John scoffed, “Don’t let him fill your head with too much nonsense. Religion’s all well and good as long as you keep it from getting to wild. He’s got eyes on you anyway. Look to Davy Cooper, he’s a better match for you.”

“Not likely to either of them,” Harriet scoffed, “I can manage my own skirts John Watson, and don’t you forget it!”

John held up his hands peaceably and Harry scowled at him until he left, but her heart wasn’t in it. John laid the yoke on Sherlock and walked beside him as he pulled the wagon back to the manger. He was in agony but he didn’t climb onto the wagon and Sherlock didn’t offer to pull him. The intent was clear. If Sherlock had to toil so did John. Neither resented it.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock was clearly sore and tired so when they reached the manger so John took the yoke off of his neck and unloaded the hay while he panted off to one side. Lestrade took up caring for his abused arsehole, lapping at his bottom to keep it clean after their activities the day before. Sherlock and the other Receivers were all favouring their bottoms, laying on their sides or stomachs rather than their backs.

John followed the instructions of several Givers as they urged him to keep the hay in the manger. They wanted it dry and usable as food, apparently content to stay outside even in the chill of winter. John watched in surprise as they sharpened long sticks and used them to break up the semi-frozen ground beside the manger. They used their hooves, horns, and hands to shift the dirt, John joining in where he could, until they had a bowl-shaped recession in the ground. Pine needles and other soft detris were tossed in, sticks piled around it and woven together to shape a crude shelter. This they all climbed into, curling against each other and using the manger and their stick-wall as a windbreak. Sherlock joined John in the manger rather than stay with the other satyr, curling around him tightly. They were too exhausted for sex, but the warmth and companionship was worth more to John than the entire mountain. He breathed in Sherlock’s scent and let himself finally relax.

John woke to the sound of sobbing and it took him a moment to put two and two together and realize that there shouldn’t be the sound of _human_ sobbing anywhere nearby. He wrapped a blanket around himself and staggered outside to stare in alarm at the sight of human children curled up amidst the Satyr. They looked terrified and the Satyr with them looked frustrated.

“The hell is going on?” John asked, his voice slurred from his deep sleep.

Irene stood, her youngest kidd on her hip as she stared at John with fire in her eyes.

“No more.”

“No more what?” John asked, “Clearly not kids, because you’ve managed to find more!”

“No more milk.”

“What?” John asked.

“No more waygones.”

“Wayg… wagons?” John blinked a few times.

“No more this,” She tugged at her sleek leg fur with one hand.

“Fur,” John replied, finally catching on, “You’re done with the humans. I get that, but… oh gods.”

John was staring in horror at their windbreak. It had been altered during the night. It now sported supports made of _rifles_. Rifles that were shoved nose-down into the ground and woven into the workings of their shelter.

“Where are they?” John asked, voice cracking in horror as he looked around the group, “Where are the grown ups? _Where is my sister?”_

Sherlock’s arms stopped him from grabbing Irene and shaking her. He was pulled in tight to Sherlock’s body and held gently until his thrashing stopped.

“I’m calm. I’m calm. Okay. Talk to me. Where are they?”

Irene pointed back towards the double barns with their long wall separating the fields, a wall that surrounded the entire enclosure and kept the satyr safe during the hard winter. The gates were now thrown open, so there was no way both barns hadn’t been accessed by the angry fauns.

“Are they alive?” John asked.

“Many,” Irene replied.

“But not all of them?”

“No,” She agreed, her voice showing just a hint of remorse.

“Okay. What now?” John asked miserably.

John approached the barns slowly. The receiver barn was the one most occupied, it being the larger of the two since they had more receivers than givers. It held the families while the single folks had taken up in the smaller barn where the wail of babies wouldn’t keep them up. John held the arm of a teenage boy he’d hand chosen to return to the humans. He’d chosen him for two reasons: he was more aware of what was going on and could relay it, and if the receivers went on Heat again he was old enough to be affected and therefore traumatized by it.

They saw him before he saw them, and a woman came barrelling out of the building sobbing while a man tried to stop her. She ran up to the lad and threw her arms around him. More people drifted out once they realized that it wasn’t a trap for them. They were all talking a mile a minute, mostly wanting to know where the other children were and others wanting to know where John’s loyalties were.

“Quiet down!” John shouted over them, “Now listen, as far as I’m aware all the children are alive, fed, and warm. Now you answer me. What happened here last night?”

More shouting as everyone tried to answer.

“ENOUGH!” John shouted, “Marshall, you answer.”

Marshall Wiggins stepped forward, his face twisted in anger, “Those damn beasts showed up here while we were all sleeping. They snuck in and took the children. They snuck back out just as quietly, didn’t wake a damn soul. Not even the chickens. They must have taken the guns and knives at the same time. Then they came back in and woke us up by shouting and howling and hooting at us like beasts. They separated the women. We thought they meant to rape them, but they mustn’t have been in season. Then they pulled Crowley, Luke, and Mug out of the other barn- they’d been ransacked too- brought us all outside, and slit their throats while we watched.”

John had suspected most of that based on what Mycroft had tried to relate to him, so he merely nodded and prompted him, “Then what?”

“What do you mean, then what? They killed three men, took our children, and terrified our womenfolk!” Marshall shouted.

“Then they wrote a message on the ground,” A voice called out.

“Who said that?” John asked.

The crowd parted and Reverend Josh stepped forward, “They wrote a message on the ground. All pictures, but clearly communicating. Animals don’t do that.”

“No, animals don’t,” John nodded.

“We’ve commited a terrible sin these last two hundred years, haven’t we?” The Reverend asked, his voice choked with sorrow.

“Yes, we have,” John agreed.

The shouting was taken up again, people pointing to each other and shouting about the men who had been killed and the children taken. John pulled a handgun out of the back of his jeans and fired it into the air.

“They’ll trade your kids for their kidds,” John shouted, “They sent Roger here back with me as proof they’re willing to be civil about this.”

“That’s what the pictures said,” Reverend replied, “But we don’t know where the sold ones are.”

“I told them that,” John replied, “They’re willing to compromise. My father kept records in the homestead. I’ve told the faun’s that we need to get to them to find their young ones, and that nothing can be done until after the water’s gone down at least- possibly until help comes from a few towns over.”

“What about our babies?!” A woman sobbed, “They need us! Those animals can’t keep them…”

“They are _not_ animals!” John shouted, “They are living, intelligent beings! You saw them last night? They took your children- same as was done to them. They separated your women from your men- same as was done to them. They slit the throats of the three men who tried to take Irene’s kidd to cook up and eat- same as we slit the throats of useless bucks and send them to the factory to be made into dog food. They took your supplies that you need to survive. They did on a small scale what we’ve done to them for _two hundred years!_ For two hundred years we’ve beaten them, kept them uneducated, used them as slaves, raped them, shorn them, stolen their milk, and sold off their children. They’ve declared independence now. Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to fight them on that. They don’t need weapons like we do.”

“They said they made the hurricane!” A frightened voice called out.

“I sincerely doubt that,” John replied, “But it’s a part of their belief system.”

“They have religion?” Reverend Josh asked.

“I’ve seen them pray and make offerings to some god or another,” John replied, recalling the piles of food left on leaves at the base of north-facing trees. He’d thought it was to save for later at the time, the satyr too stupid to realize they were travelling. Now he understood better.

“What of a culture?”

John nodded, “They’re as varied and unique as we are. We just didn’t want to see it. This won’t be the last ranch go through this. I for one stand by them. It’s time they were free.”

“They won’t get away with this!” Someone shouted, voice tortured with fear.

“No,” John called back, “They won’t. They’ll be hunted and killed for demanding the same liberties you take for granted. You can get up and piss in a toilet every day, but they sleep on the cold ground! You can tuck your children into beds each night, while they can keep theirs till two years old and then hope they have a better life as we tear them from their mother’s teat! I have no hope that my herd will survive this winter. I full well imagine that they’ll die at the hands of some, if not all of you. I’ll likely die with them, but for now _they’ve got your children._ Hopefully between now and then your offspring will see what I’ve seen and the next generation won’t be the fools we were.”

“John,” Reverend Josh stepped closer still, “The children. They can’t stay with them. Even if they’re intelligent enough to keep them alive and fed they need their parents.”

“I’m going to negotiate with them,” John replied, “But I need a bargaining chip. I’ve no way to show them we’re sincere, and frankly you lot don’t sound as if you are. They’ve sent back a child. Can you lot send someone?”

An uproar started once again, but the reverend stepped forward, “I’ll go.”

“Me too,” Harry pushed through, “My place is with you, John.”

“No, wait!” A man called out, pushing forward, “I have one of their kidds.”

“You?” John surveyed the man. He was a stranger to his eyes.

“I’m Donald McGregor. I bought one of the kidds for my wife when our son died, to keep as a pet. Son, she’s spent the last four years telling me the little creature wasn’t just an animal. I didn’t want to believe it. I thought our son’s death led her over the edge.”

“Where are they now?” John asked urgently.

“She refused to bring him back here. She was afraid they’d cook him up. She stayed down in the village, said she’d find shelter. I was going to get supplies and join her but I couldn’t find her when I went back.”

John frowned, “The storm?”

“No, it was long passed, though something _could_ have happened.”

“The kidd, can you describe him?”

“Brown with grey dapples, very short for a satyr.”

“Oh my gods,” John whispered.

XXX

John and McGregor were heading down to the ruined village while Rev headed for the manger to meet up with the Satyr and assure the children were safe. A call from behind him stopped him in his tracks.

“John!”

John hesitated and then turned to face his sister, “I’m sorry you had to see that. To hear it. I’ll understand if you don’t want to be…”

Harriet threw her arms around John’s shoulders and hugged him tightly, “John Watson I have never been more proud of you!”

“You… really?”

Harriet stepped back, smiling up at him as she readjusted her sling and winced in pain around her broad grin.

“You were magnificent! I never knew you had it in you! The way you let dad walk all over you and treat you like a…”

“Yeah, okay,” John nodded, “You were being nice a moment ago, don’t spoil it. Look, I need someone to get to the homestead and get those lists, but I’ve no way to do that _and_ rescue a lost satyr. Can you organize some people who are understanding? They’d have to shift through the rubble.”

“I’m on it,” Harriet nodded, “I’ll meet you back at the manger.”

A light snow started to fall around them and they both looked skyward, sniffing the air to determine the weather’s path.

“We need to hurry,” They both said at the same time, then smiled fondly and nodded sharply to each other. Without further hesitation they turned and headed for their tasks.

John and McGregor hurried down into the village and he pointed out the ruined house that was his at one point. John surveyed the land, trying to think like a satyr. They were strong family creatures. This one would care for the woman he’d been raised by and that meant taking her someplace his instincts said was safe.

“The library,” John pointed, “He can eat most of the contents but he won’t understand that your wife can’t. He’ll take her there. It’s on higher ground and it looks pretty solid from here.”

McGregor nodded and they started down, wading through foulsmelling water that came up to their knees. John’s feet were instantly frozen. It was damn cold and he knew they’d never make the longish trek this way.

“We need a boat,” McGregor chattered beside him, teeth cracking together loudly in the still air.

The snow made the area around them seem muffled. Ice cut at John’s knee, too thin to support them but thick enough to hinder them. John’s legs were still healing. He’d get an infection from this cold, filthy water for sure. John frowned. A boat would be difficult to find, at least in one piece. The harbour was on the other side of the town but a few might have one on their property. They’d keep their eyes open for one that was in tact.

They were halfway to the library when McGregor stopped, panting and gripping a signpost.

“I can’t. I can’t feel my damn feet.”

“Me neither,” John replied, “Maybe we’re close enough now.”

“Close enough for what?”

Instead of answering John let out a loud bugle cry, imitating the satyr call to move in the forest. He waited for the count of ten and then repeated it. Waited again, but as he was about to start another, an unfamiliar call echoed out. John grinned eagerly and shifted his call to one made by distressed Satyr, then repeated the previous call. Silence. John was ready to give up and start moving again, but the sound of displaced water met their ears. John stared at the side of a building in hope and sure enough a dappled satyr walked around it. On his back was a woman clinging to his shoulders as he carried her piggyback.

“Nora!” McGregor called, eyes lighting up in relief.

“Don!”

They met in the middle of the road, John nuzzling the satyr affectionately to show him he was ‘one of them’ while Nora and Donald hugged weakly.

“What now?” McGregor asked, “We’ll not make it back on foot.”

“The rooftops,” Nora stated, “We can hop from one to the other. It’s how we made it to the library.”

“How?” John asked, “Ru can’t do that.”

“Sure he can,” Nora chuckled, “With my shoes tied to his feet for traction!”

They scrambled up a shed and onto a roof, John and McGregor barely able to function. Once there they shed their bottoms and shoes and rubbed at their feet in an attempt to get circulation back into them. They were ice cold and white. John worried and so did the satyr who was helping them rub at them.

“Can we get into the houses?” John asked, “We need to warm up, fast.”

“We can try a window,” McGregor pointed out, “We’ll need help.”

“Ru and Nora can help,” John stated.

It was a struggle to lower them, and they had to use their trousers as rope to do so, but finally they succeeded in breaking a window and getting into the second story of the house they’d been perched on. It creaked ominously but John didn’t hesitate to stagger about and collect blankets from the bed while Nora found fuel and a metal wastepaper basket to make a fire. They picked the smallest room, a child’s room, and moved the little campfire into there. Ru and John pressed close, Ru drying off his legs with towels while John snuggled against his hot body.

“They’re warmer than we are,” John babbled, feeling horribly tired and ill.

Nora and McGregor had taken to the bed, shivering together as they tried to warm themselves. The fire was quickly warming the room and John was barely aware of Ru cracking a window open for air. They’d be greatful later but for now they were just exhausted. All three humans quickly fell into fitful sleep while Ru stood guard over them, rubbing at abused limbs and adding more fodder to their little fireplace.

John woke to hands stroking along his body and shivered in desire. Ru was touching him but it took a while to realize it wasn’t Sherlock. Once he did he pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” John sighed, gently tugging Ru’s hands out of his trousers, “Sherlock would have my head. I know you lot share quite a bit but… look, he’s sort of an oddball even for a satyr. Let’s just get you home to your mum and dad, okay?”

John woke Nora and McGregor and they peeled away from the warmth. Nora tied her shoes onto Ru’s legs again and they scrambled up their ‘rope’ to the rooftop. The chill of the wind bit into their legs but their trousers were frozen and useless. Luckily their shoes and socks were (mostly) dry so they were able to survive the trip. The snow hadn’t stuck so the rooftops were survivable, if cold, as the wind bit into them. They jumped from roof to roof until they reached a tree, and then climbed down it. Poor Ru reached the limit of his acrobatic ability here and fell hard on the ground. John scrambled to his side, but he was merely winded. He helped the satyr up and they weakly headed for the high ground and the barns therein.

XXX

John had never been so grateful for an oversized pair of overalls in his life. He clipped them on gratefully and then set out with Ru to return to the herd once he could feel his toes again. The farmers had received their children back while he had been gone and were listening to them chatter on about the games they’d played with the satyr once they had stopped crying. Apparently satyr had some rather fun jumping games similar to hopscotch. John made a mental note to learn it so he could play it with his kidds… assuming Sherlock had any with him. If not he’d find someone else to help him mount Sherlock during his next heat so they could have a child together… assuming he could figure out whom Sherlock wasn’t related to and would _allow_ to breed him.

John sped up his steps eagerly as he got closer to the manger, longing for Sherlock’s arms and sweet herb and earth scent. When he was close enough to see the herd he let out a bugle and Sherlock came bolting towards him. John broke into a run and was scooped up into Sherlock’s arms. He peppered his beautiful face with kisses and stroked the soft insides of his ears with his thumbs while Sherlock licked at his neck and beneath his ear. He snuggled against him lovingly, arms around his waist and face pressed to a warm shoulder once he’d landed his feet back on the ground.

“I need sleep,” John groaned, “Sleep and _lots_ of touching.”

Sherlock made a grumbling sound of approval, but before they could move towards the manger he heard a startled cry. Mycroft had come forward and was staring in shock at the short dappled satyr. His ears perked up and they spent a moment circling each other and sniffing curiously before Mycroft pulled him against himself tightly. John smiled softly at the sight of them nuzzling each other. Mycroft was weeping softy as he petted the satyr’s long grey hair. Lestrade hurried forward with a happy whoop and tugged them both close, nuzzling them lovingly.

“How did we ever think you lot were animals when _family_ matters so much to you?” John wondered.

Sherlock let out a derisive snort, as if he couldn’t understand why either, and tugged John towards the manger. On the way there he saw something that had him gaping in shock. They’d _built a village_ while he’d been gone! Six little wigwams made of sticks and mud- now frozen solid- with his harvested blankets, as makeshift doors had appeared beside his manger. Sherlock led John back to said building and pressed John down onto a blanket-covered mound of hay and covered him over with his own warm body. John sighed in bliss. He let Sherlock lick and touch him for a moment before pushing him gently away. He had to check himself over for frostbite.

John removed his trousers- giving Sherlock the _wrong_ idea again- and examined his wind-chaffed skin. His legs were both red and raw from exposure, the skin on his knees cracked and bleeding in spots. His feet were worse off, his toes a pale white that worried John as he tested them for numb or dead spots. Sherlock made anxious knickering sounds as he stared at John’s damaged flesh. Then he stood and hurried away. John had no doubt it was to take care of him, so he sat back and stoked up the small oven meant to heat the tiny manger for sick or injured Satyr.

The wind was whistling ominously when Sherlock returned, placing a wooden bowl full of water on top of the stove. He dropped some withered leaves into the bowl and left it to heat while he knelt down to study John’s feet.

“I don’t think I’ll lose my toes,” John fussed, “I guess we’ll find out in the next few days.”

Sherlock snorted and continued his examination. Then he left and returned with… a stone knife. It was thin, sharp as death, and made John instantly terrified. He scrambled away from Sherlock but he ignored him. He placed the stone knife in the fire and John felt his stomach clench in fear.

_He’s going to cut something off! Oh my gods, what do I do? Let him? Fight him? Run?_

Sherlock took the knife out of the fire using the edge of a blanket to protect his fingers and dropped it into the herb water. The water started to boil almost immediately. Sherlock smiled at John and dabbed the corner of the blanket into the water before bringing it to John and wrapping it around his toes. Then he got another and dabbed it onto his cracked knees. The heat went straight to John’s sore muscles and he sighed in relief, sinking back into the straw. Sure, it stung a bit, but the herbs were soothing as well and John soon drifted off to sleep while Sherlock took care of him.

John awoke to pleasure sparking through his body until his toes curled. Sherlock was lapping at his cock with a hungry look on his eyes and John wasn’t about to disagree. When the sexy faun straddled him he stopped him to make sure he was stretched enough only to find the buck had prepared himself. Sherlock slid down on John’s hard cock, moaning softly at the beautiful full feeling. He settled in John’s lap for a moment while they both panted and then began to slowly ride John’s throbbing member. John gasped and groaned, gripping fistfuls of blankets and straw as he tried to stop himself from exploding at the first flutter of Sherlock’s beautiful channel.

They made love slowly this time, Sherlock’s body swaying as he slowly lifted himself and let his body fall back with a sigh of pleasure. His ears lay limp as if he were sleeping and his tail flickered only occasionally. He made gentle crooning sounds, love and tenderness reflected in his eyes as John moaned softly beneath him. He stroked along furred legs and rubbed peaked nipples until Sherlock was whimpering with need. When his fist closed around Sherlock’s proud cock it was so hard he could have mistaken it for a hammer shaft. Sherlock keened and John pumped him slowly, in the same pace as his shifting body. When Sherlock tossed his head in need John sped up his movements and Sherlock stilled on his lap as his cock pulsed and hot fluids spurted across John’s body. John gasped through the tight clench of Sherlock’s passages, then bucked up a bit to encourage the satyr to keep moving. Sherlock moaned and took up a slightly faster tempo, but John slowed him again. He was enjoying his slow rise to orgasm and wanted to continue the pace.

Sherlock whimpered as he rode John, his thigh muscles clenching and unclenching. John pushed himself up a bit and lapped at a nipple, suckling some milk when Sherlock arched his back in offering. A soft cry left Sherlock’s lips and his body trembled around John’s aching cock. John moaned softly and fell back, guiding Sherlock to move faster now, just enough to bring him over the edge soon. He stroked his lover’s prick again, running his thumb over the slit and spreading the fluids there. Sherlock moaned, his voice so sinfully deep that it vibrated through John’s body. John gasped and thrashed a bit, trying to hold out that tiny bit longer despite the fact his orgasm had been building for twenty minutes now. Then Sherlock let out a sharp cry and his furred bollocks clenched once more, spraying John with his pleasure. John groaned as his own released washed over him in long pulls of hot pleasure, his cock pulsing for so long that he was gasping for breath by the time it was done. He lay back in exhaustion, Sherlock’s long, hot body draped over him. Eventually he coaxed his lover to shift and sit up on his face, knowing he couldn’t manage kneeling at this point. He lapped up his entrance, cleaning him as Lestrade had taught him and swallowing his own salty release as it mixed with Sherlock’s spicy fluids. When his lover felt clean enough Sherlock climbed down and returned the favour for John before settling in for the bliss of post-coital sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

John had never expected this. Hate, yes. Violence, quite likely. But the revulsion that curled in his stomach at the look on his sister’s face at this moment was… well, a bit hypocritical, to be honest.

Harry was curled up in Molls’ arms, stark naked in one of the little shelters they had made. The shelter was warm from a small can fire and the curled bodies packed in wall to wall. Molls, as it turns out, was a Giver. John knew this not because he could see her arsehole, but because her shaft was still exposed a bit. He’d been operating under the assumption that she was a Receiver (as had his father) because she had a marking on her bum, but it hadn’t been the same shape as a Receiver’s normally was. Apparently it was simply a birthmark. These things did happen sometimes, but John hadn’t ever seen it happen on _their_ farm. He was curious as to why Molly hadn’t shown signs of this before hand- namely when she’d been intimate with Lestrade and Mycroft- but he supposed it was possible she was a late bloomer. He’d not caught sight of her during their mating time and now that he thought back he couldn’t place where she’d been _at all_. Possibly hiding? Or kept away by an older satyr due to her not being ready quite yet?

“Hey,” John hissed, leaning forward and flicking his sister’s ear, “Wake up, Harry.”

“Mm,” Harry grumbled, prying one eye open. She took one look at John and screamed in horror, hands trying to cover herself as she turned beat red.

“It’s fine!” John shouted, “It’s all fine! Calm the fuck down!”

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods,” Harry sobbed, “Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t wanna die!”

“You’re not gonna die!” John shouted at her while the satyr around them all flailed about and tried to see what the cause for the disturbance was, “I’m not going to tell anyone, and I’ve got a satyr lover too!”

“You have?”

“Um, yeah?” John shook his head, “I thought you knew. I’ve only been hanging around him like crazy.”

“I thought… I thought he was maybe your sort of proof of them being smart or something.”

“Yeah, he’s that, too,” John chuckled, “I was going to take some of the Receivers to the encampment and offer to trade supplies for their milk. If they want to, that is. So… you and Molls, huh?”

“Molls?” Harry made a face, “I’ve been calling her Cupcake.”

“That’s… okay…” John tried.

“I think I like Molls better,” Harry yawned, “Could you turn around so I can dress?”

“Sure,” John chuckled, and headed outside where most of the satyr had migrated during their conversation.

The receivers had an overabundance of milk due to their repeated milkings by the farm hands, so they had to relieve the pressure soon. Most were happily feeding their mates and children, a bit of fondling going on between the mated pairs and groups. John headed for Mycroft and carefully suggested the trade, pointing out some buckets in the manger as useful to preserve the satyr’s modesty. Mycroft considered it and went to talk to the other Receivers. After a while they gathered around, cleaned out the buckets, and pumped milk into them. John lent a hand, milking Buttercup since her Giver was behaving oddly towards her. He had quite forgotten about Moriarty, but now that he’d recalled the situation he wondered if Moran was acting off because his brother had been killed. Would it cause him to reject his mate?

John loaded the wagon full of milk and headed for the barns, hauling the wagon himself. Sherlock trotted up shortly after he’d taken off and he and Buttercup took over pulling the wagon. John’s legs and feet were grateful for the relief. He’d been pushing himself so hard lately that he wasn’t certain he could function for much longer. John was panting by the time they reached the barn, but the occupants were all in a tizzy, packing their belongings into bags and gathering in a group outside.

“Help has come?” John guessed.

“A support copter is coming in,” the Rev replied, “They’re going to give us supplies. The water’s receding in the town so we’ll be able to head back in soon.”

“That’s great,” John replied, “I brought some milk in. We’d like to trade for whatever you can spare.”

“Trade?” One man grunted, “This is an emergency situation!”

“Yeah, but we’re talking about a new kind of people trying to garner respect here,” John replied, “And you’ve got supplies coming in. Not to mention a _lot_ more than they have to begin with.”

“Then why do we _need_ your milk?” A woman sneered.

“You don’t, but it sure would be nice to have fresh milk. I haven’t separated it so there’s cream on the top by now. You could make butter if you liked.”

That was tempting and he knew it. They were all studying him carefully and John did his best to _not_ look desperate. Sherlock and Buttercup had unhitched themselves from the wagon and Sherlock sauntered up. He slipped an arm around John and nuzzled his ear.

Big mistake.

Looks of disgust and shock filled the faces of John’s peers and he felt his stomach clench as the entire group took a step back in obvious horror. John swallowed hard and squared his shoulders.

“They’re _intelligent._ They’re _people_ ,” John insisted.

“With _tails_ ,” A woman replied, revulsion marring her face.

“The milk,” John stated firmly, “Your decision.”

“I don’t want that stuff poisoning my kids!” A woman snapped.

“Oh please!” John laughed, “You drank it as a kid, too.”

An angry grumble went up and John frowned at the group.

“Alright then,” John nodded, “Don’t bother making any reparations for the lives and freedom you stole from them. Selfish bastards.”

John went for the hook-up and the satyr helped him lash himself in. They each took a side and helped him pull this time, working together to get the cart back. When the helicopter came down John ignored it, consoling the frightened younger satyr with Lestrade in the lead. Then he headed back to the barn with them the next day, figuring he’d salvage what he could and move the satyr into more comfortable shelter.

Except the closer he got the more skittish the satyr got, distracting him until he was almost on top of the barn area before he realized something was wrong. They were both gone. Well, not quite _gone_. Destroyed was more accurate. The beams were scorched and the ashes were still smouldering. A few men in uniform were standing around as John approached in horror.

“What happened?” John asked, the satyr hanging back in obvious fear.

“Looks like someone tried to use petrol to heat one of the barns. It exploded and the other one caught fire.”

“That’s impossible,” John shook his head, “There’s a fire wall between them so we won’t lose both halves of the herd in a disaster.”

“Someone took it down,” The man replied, indicating where the bricks had been pulled down. Someone had indeed taken it apart, probably to salvage it for repairs to a house and make it easier to go between both barns.

“Where are the survivors?” John asked, staring around the empty area. Sherlock was carefully approaching him, his nose twitching as he scented the air. His head was lowered in a defensive pose, as if at any moment he’d charge or run.

The man stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on John’s shoulder, “It happened in the middle of the night, son. There weren’t any survivors.”

A shadow caught in John’s vision and he turned his head sharply towards the forest edge where the gate swung open between field and mountain path. Something had alerted Sherlock as well and he was standing tall now, snorting out air as if something foul had accosted his nose. A suspicion was growing in Johns heart. The farmhouse. The barns. The hurricane had been savage, but to blow down a stone house in one area while leaving them merely tossed about in another?

“I don’t think this was an accident,” John told the man, “I think someone did this intentionally.”

“Who?” He asked, looking horrified.

“I don’t know, but I think you should have the police look at my family’s farmhouse. I thought the hurricane took it down but now I’m not so sure.”


	10. Fan Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Credit to Tumblr artist grinningdarling

http://grinningdarling.tumblr.com/

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

John led the police up to the barn, carefully picking his way and keeping an eye on the woods around him. His leg was still weak but the medic had taken a look at it and he now had it properly bandaged and a shot of antibiotics running through his system. Sherlock was at his side as usual, eyes flickering from side to side as he moved silently along the path. He didn’t like the path and John didn’t blame him. It felt exposed after their long trek through the woods and now that John was convinced that _someone_ was out there he was more concerned than ever. The police were put on edge by John and Sherlock’s behaviour and kept their hands on their guns. John had his shotgun with him, but it was over his shoulder since walking was already a challenge. Sherlock, of course, was unarmed but could probably out think all of them in a heartbeat. John was convinced he was intentionally holding his brilliance back.

They rounded the last corner and John led the police up to the house. They spent some time exploring the area, but there was no real evidence, especially after so much time, weather, and visits by other people. One of the officers caught up with John and told him they’d have to send up an expert on weather and disasters. John agreed and then glanced around in concern.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked.

“Yeah, and Sam,” The officer asked with a frown, “Oi! Sam!”

“Sherlock!” John called.

Silence met their ears and John began to panic. He hurried back to the path but then recalled Sherlock would avoid it so he began to circle the house on the outskirts of the property, but Officer Franklins stopped him.

“We need to stick together,” He advised.

“Sherlock wouldn’t just wander off,” John told him, “He’s wicked intelligent and worried about me.”

“We’ll find your pet.”

“He’s not my _pet_ ,” John snapped, “They’re _intelligent beings_.”

“Sure, kid,” The man huffed.

“I’m not a- Look, let’s just split up and look for them,” John huffed.

“That’s the exact _opposite_ of what I just said!”

“I’m feeling contrary!” John snapped.

A bleat from the woods caught John’s ear and he took off after it, Officer Franklins chasing after him with a shout. John found Sherlock about twenty feet into the tree line where he was standing over something with a grim look on his face.

“John,” Sherlock stated clearly, “Officer Brown is dead.”

“What?” John spat out.

“Sam!” Officer Franklin shouted, “The hell did it do to him?!”

John stared down at Officer Sam Brown in horror. The man’s clothes had been ripped off and he was lying in a pool of blood. John didn’t want to imagine what that meant. He backed away in horror.

“What happened?” John asked Sherlock.

“That _thing_ did this!” Officer Franklin shouted, pulling out his gun.

John stepped in front of Sherlock, “Now hang on! He called us over! Why would he do that if he’d hurt Brown?”

“He’s an animal, he doesn’t know what he’s done! He has to be put down!”

“He just _spoke_ ,” John snapped, “You know many animals that do that? How about we _ask_ him what happened?”

The officer hesitated and then nodded, lowering his gun a bit, “Fine. Sherlock was it? What happened to Sam?”

“He was sodomized and choked to death, possibly not in that order,” Sherlock stated clearly.

John blinked, not sure what to be more shocked by; the blatant use of a vocabulary Sherlock had been hiding or the fact the man had been so horribly done in. The officer had no such problem. He made a choking sound and stared around himself in rage.

“If it wasn’t you, then who was it?” Officer Franklins asked.

“I didn’t see,” Sherlock replied, “I caught a foul smell and followed my nose here. You heard my shout of alarm when I stumbled across him. What shocks me is how _fast_ this went down! We were only separated for… twenty minutes?”

“About that, yeah,” John nodded, “We sort of spread out.”

“You went North,” Sherlock nodded, “I stayed here on the fringe but about twenty paces that way-“

“Satyr paces or human?” John frowned.

“Satyr, of course,” Sherlock frowned, “Don’t be thick.”

“Right, what was I thinking?” John asked sardonically.

“I was about twenty _satyr_ paces away from this man, which is why it’s surprising that I didn’t hear his murder. My ears are quite sharp,” Sherlock paced away and then back again, carefully stepping in his own tracks to avoid damaging the scene, “He _must_ have been choked first or during, but that means whoever overpowered him was incredibly fast, strong, and intelligent. They disarmed him easily.”

“What are you saying?” Officer Franklins asked, “It had to be a human?”

“Why am I constantly surrounded by morons?” Sherlock sighed, “Satyr are physically stronger, faster, and _yes_ intelligent. We’ve been kept ignorant by you lot, or we’d have shown it sooner. Also, can I just point out that I’ve been careful with my steps for a _reason_? There are Satyr tracks everywhere!”

“I _did_ notice that,” The man scowled, “That’s why I accused you in the first place!”

“And yet assumed I was too dumb to-“

“Sherlock,” John snapped, “ _Timing_.”

“Bit not good?” Sherlock asked, eyes riveting to John.

“No, bit not good,” John sighed, “Advocate later, figure out the crime now.”

Sherlock smiled softly, “You named me for a fictional mystery solving genius, but while I very well may be a genius I have still be slighted on my education. I’m very observant and aware of the abilities of my own kind and humans. I am not a walking crime solving machine.”

“But you must have some idea!” John stammered, “A scent or-“

“The scent is covered with fox urine,” Sherlock replied, “A common enough technique. Even humans know to use it.”

“I’m not liking how you talk about us as if we’re inferior,” Officer Franklins snarled.

“Really?” Sherlock asked with an exaggerated widening of his eyes, “Is that insulting? I’d had no idea. It’s always been done around me so I thought it the norm.”

Franklins glared at John to ask for intervention, but John just shook his head, “Yeah, you know, I halfway believe him on that one.”

“Okay, look,” Franklins sighed, “This is a crime scene. You guys need to back up while I call this in.”

Franklins pulled out a wireless, but John shook his head, “We don’t get signals up here. We had a phone line but it’s probably down.”

“Damn it,” The man sighed, “I can’t leave this crime scene unattended and I can’t go down the damn mountain to report it!”

“We’ll go-“ John suggested.

“You two are suspects!”

“ _You’re_ a suspect,” Sherlock scoffed, “How do we know you didn’t stage this to _look_ like a Satyr had done it?”

“Sherlock,” John sighed.

“I didn’t even know you things could _talk!”_ Franklins argued.

“Convenient, that,” Sherlock folded his arms, “You might have done it to kill off your partner, have an easy patsy, and then off down the mountain and no one would ever ask.”

“I _liked_ Sam!”

“I didn’t _dis_ like him,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Yeah, neither did I,” John replied, “So the crime scene being your most important issue, and there _technically_ being two here-“

“We don’t know the farmhouse is one, and it’s already been contaminated,” Franklins argued.

“I’m worried about you being left with your dead partner,” John decided after a pause, “You’re not acting like yourself right now.”

“You barely know me,” Franklin replied, but his eyes shifted to one side.

“I know companionship well enough to know that it can seriously fuck with someone’s mind,” John replied, “We need help and we need to keep moving so let’s do that. Down the mountain. All of us.”

They began to move back down the path, and once again John got that creepy ‘being watched’ feeling. He didn’t try to ignore it this time. Instead he turned to Officer Franklins and whispered that he felt eyes on them. The man gave him a nod and a grunt, apparently feeling it as well, but before they could make plans John ran headlong into Sherlock. He’d stopped in the middle of the path and was sniffing the air.

“What is it?” John whispered.

“Fox urine.”


End file.
